Myriad
by Aerileigh
Summary: Five score drabbles du jour for the 100 Drabbles in 100 Days challenge. A veritable potpourri of everything I like in fanfic, especially Draco and Ginny, all summer long. Because I'm rather mad that way.
1. New

"Think they've picked the new Seeker?" asked Ginny, pulling her gray and white practice robes over her head and stuffing them into her locker.

Her burly teammate, Blake Mahoney, threw down his beater bat. "They better had. There's no way Crowley can play without fingers. Of all the things for a Seeker to Splinch," he said, shaking his head with a grimace.

Ginny cringed at the thought. "Poor bloke."

The rough-and-tumble Falmouth Falcons were cleaned up and in fresh, camera-ready robes by the time their coach, an ex-Beater with a face like a banged-up cobblestone, came tromping through the locker room.

"Press conference is in ten minutes, so I'll be brief," grunted Coach Bagley. "We're announcing that Draco Malfoy is joining the team as Seeker. Hardly needs an introduction, being a Malfoy, but he'll be addressing the press. Be there in five, happy faces on."

Mahoney groaned as the coach left. "And I really thought we had a shot at the League Cup."

Ginny jabbed him with the business end of her broom. "Who's to say we won't? My Woollongong Shimmy is near perfect. Cannons' won't know what hit them when we open next month."

"Maybe," chimed in Lance Green, a fellow Chaser, "But d'you think he bought his way in, or do the Galleons he spent on a custom broomstick make up for his lack of talent?"

"Seeker can make or break a solid team," said Mahoney, sorrowfully shaking his head.

Ginny thumped her wrist guard against his skull. "For all that he's a right git, I feel sorry for him. It's rotten enough to be the new guy without torment from the likes of you."

Green chuckled. "Little Lioness is protective of the cubby."

"Perhaps she's not insensitive to the male charm after all," jeered Mahoney. "I hear he's quite the pretty little cat."

Ginny folded her arms and quoted, "Let us win, but if we cannot win, let us break a few heads." She leveled a glare at them and added, "I'd rather beat in some Cannon heads, but you lot will do in a pinch."

She hefted her broom. "Oh, and if I remember Malfoy at all, call him anything resembling a lion and you'll wish your head beat itself in."

Ignoring her heckling team, she hefted her broom, strapped on her wrist guards, and went to meet her new teammate. Happy face _on_.

* * *

A/N: How novel. I'm adding my notes at the end.

I'm participating in **The DG Forum's 100 Drabbles in 100 Days** challenge, which means I'll be writing five score of these four-hundred-words-or-less little darlings and posting them here in a sort of drabble du jour for your reading delight. And perhaps to make you think, though I promise nothing.

They shall mostly revolve around Draco and Ginny, because I simply can't help myself, but I'm fairly certain that other characters and pairings shall make an appearance. I shan't be able to resist a bit of Blaise, and Lucius will undoubtedly make an appearance...or several.

As for content, I promise nothing. I tend to range between very light and fluffy to rather dark and evil, and I plan to exercise my penchant for everything in between. I do hope you'll join me for the journey; it promises to be an interesting one.

And please review! There's nothing quite so encouraging as feedback, and if you have an idea for a future drabble, do share. My muse will be infinitely grateful for your love and support. ;)


	2. Broken

Draco slipped the kid leather from his fingers and flicked the pristine gloves onto the bureau with a smack. Ginny flinched, but didn't move from her perch at the edge of the bed.

"Why," her husband began slowly, "Did I hear from _Flint _that my wife is betraying me?" His voice was cool as he slipped the buttons from his dress robes, his precise control only faltering as he mentioned the name of the other man.

Ginny met his eyes in the mirror. She slipped a gold comb from her hair, letting loose curls fall from the elegant chignon.

"You believe his word over mine?" she said quietly.

Glaring malevolently, Draco crossed the carpet and snatched her wrists. "Can you _give_ me your word? Open those pretty, brown eyes wide, and tell me that your loyalty is first to _me_?

"You're hurting me." Ginny twisted her arms away, taking advantage of the elbow-length gloves. He retaliated, pushing her back and pinning her shoulders to the coverlet.

"Evasion? Really, Ginevra?" he sneered.

She struggled underneath him. "This isn't—fair."

He gave her a derisive glance and ran a finger across the low neckline of her elegant emerald gown.

"You ought to know 'fair,' my _noble_ Gryffindor." He smoothly yanked the locket from her neck.

"Draco!" she cried as the gold chain snapped against her skin.

"This isn't the one I gave you." he said, disdainfully clicking the locket open and slipping out the scrap of parchment therein.

"Draco, I can ex—" she started, but he gently placed his palm over her mouth and pressed her firmly into the downy bed, ignoring her attempts to break away.

"G," he read, "Plant proof that D is buying dark artifacts. Will drop receipts, etc. in usu. spot—H."

He was silent as his knuckles clenched around the note.

"You know what I loved?" he whispered. "Besides your laughter, and the way light catches your hair? I loved the way you insisted on doing what was _right_."

He touched her cheek. "When did you break, Gin-love? When did you give in to—'H'?"

Ginny was silent; she had no defense. Draco stood, laughing quietly.

"I guess I can stop trying to be more like my 'noble' wife. Good thing I learned how to handle traitors _before_ you came along," he said venomously, leaning against the tall bedpost. "And _I_ don't need to falsify the evidence."


	3. Hope

"Shut up, shut up, SHUT UP!"

"Honestly, Gin. You'd think I was trying to kill you."

"You ARE trying to kill me, you bastard! You are the reason that I'm in this predicament!"

"Oh, really? I seem to remember you rather insistently demanding that I do this to you."

"_Draco_ Malfoy! I did no such thing!"

"Yes, you did. This entire venture was your idea."

"That's preposterous. And _so_ like you. Trying to shirk your bloody responsibility by—OHHHH!"

"I'm not shirking anything, love. Would you please breathe?"

"I _am _breathing. Would I be able to scream at you this loudly if I wasn't _breathing_?"

"Then maybe you should try to _stop_ breathing."

"I heard that!"

"Merlin's _balls_, you're impossible."

"Oh? If _I'm_ impossible, then _you're_ the flying pig!"

"I think this would be easier if you'd just calm down."

"Calm down? Calm DOWN? I am calm, you gigantic git. I'd be calmer if you would leave me the fuck alone!"

"Like I'm going to leave you right now. I seem to recall making a promise to be with you through better _and_ worse."

"Those were figurative!"

"Oh, _really_? Our vows were_ figurative_? That's bloody wonderful."

"You know what I meant, you—OW."

"Gin. Breathe."

"Mr. Bossy-pants."

"Mr. Bossy-pants? That's an improvement on flying pig."

"Don't laugh at me! Shall we trade places? You don't appreciate me at _all_."

"No, I really appreciate what you're doing. I promise. I'll tell you all about it once you're—"

"SHUT UP!"

"Ginny, love, please breathe. I—"

"Know nothing."

"Excuse me?"

"You know nothing!"

"If I say I know nothing, will you breathe?"

"Yes."

"Okay. I know nothing."

"HA!"

"Oh, _no_ you don't. You said you'd breathe."

"Fine."

"Good girl."

"Don't you dare patronize me, Draco!"

"I'm not trying to—"

"—OW!"

"Almost done, Gin. Really."

"You owe me. Eternally."

"I owe you eternally for a lot of things."

"Get sappy and I'll clobber you as soon as—"

"—Oh, god. Shhhhh."

"Merlin, it hurts."

"Just do what she says and push."

"This. Is. All. Your. Fault."

"Of course it is, darling."

"All. Your. Fault."

"Please breathe with me."

"Your. Fault."

"Yes, dear. I'm terribly sorry."

"Draco—I love you."

"I love you too, Ginevra."

"Draco—"

…

"Oh, _Gin_. She's _beautiful_."

"Can I hold her?"

"Mmhmm. Here."

"Oh. God. She's—I guess she can be my fault, too."

* * *

A/N: Yaaaaaay. Couldn't resist a hopeful PHB.

Word Count: 399 (and the first draft was _less_!)


	4. Quills

A/N: This one nearly beat me. But I prevailed (props to Roma for cheerleading). And didn't really proof this one, so sorry for any errors. It's ridiculously late.

* * *

"Mr. Malfoy, you dropped your quill."

_This is not the first time._

He shoves her up against the doorframe and easily wins the kiss with a tilt of his chin and a carefully placed hand at the base of her neck. He's not afraid to show off his well-honed skills, and she doesn't seem to mind.

His expertise is such that he slips the other hand down to the doorknob, and without breaking the kiss, push her back into the dark little room. She pulls back for air—and for dignity.

"Draco, a supply closet?"

"If it's good enough for me, love, it's good enough for you."

He dismisses her glare with a smirk and works his magic at the back of her neck once more, easing her into another whirlwind of a kiss—but she places her hands on his chest and steps back to appraise him.

She slips the buttons of his shirt through the fine cotton languidly, as though she couldn't care less about the way the black material parts smoothly over his pale chest, but the glimmer in her amber eyes gives her away.

He's impatient, reaching his arms up and back to pull the material up over his head, aware that his muscles flex nicely when he does this, but more aware of the amber ferocity feigning indolence on the other side of the closet.

"You're adorable when you pretend you don't want me," he drawls.

"You're adorable when you pretend I do," she retorts.

He pulls her close to his chest, wrapping an arm around her waist and cinching the breath out of her lungs. He kisses the top of her head in a fashion that looks tender, but is a bit too possessive to deserve the term.

Her hands find his hair and tug him back down to a reachable height, and she wins this time, yanking too hard to make up for the fact that he's smirking into the kiss. He doesn't mind; he's made short work of her top, and the pink lines he's carving into her back will remain long after her fingers are out of his hair.

They've barely faded when she slips out of the closet, five minutes later, obviously flustered. It takes him three minutes longer, and while he's perfectly coiffed, his lips are bruised.

_This is not the last._

"Mrs. Malfoy? You dropped your quill."

* * *

A/N: In case you're feeling slow (like I am, since it's nigh two o'clock in the morning), "You dropped your quill" is their code phrase for "Snog. Shag. Whatever. NOW."

All couples ought to have one, you know. u_u


	5. Doorway

The girl had fallen asleep, finally, and he was grateful.

The dying fire was the only source of light in the massive bedroom, and Draco watched the last embers flicker and flare in their weird little dance. He felt sick, but not enough to bother summoning an elf.

He glanced down at the red hair that slipped over her shoulder to fall onto his lap. For all her bravado and fight when she was awake, her sleep betrayed her fear—she slept close, unknowingly pressing her long legs into his and curling her arms into her bare chest.

He had asked for more responsibility.

The embers in the fireplace settled and sparked, and Draco watched them pensively, distracted only by a quiet moan from the sleeping girl. At least she was used to this by now. He didn't have to lock her in—didn't have to tie her down.

He toyed with the idea of extracting himself from her limbs. The bed was big enough that he had no need to acknowledge her sleeping presence. But she was a light sleeper, he'd learned, and he didn't want to have to face her until morning.

After four months, he'd come to dread the moment when her eyes would open, glaring, and his would have to narrow, and he'd have to remind her that glaring was punishable.

He'd asked to prove himself.

She sighed in her sleep and pressed her face more closely to his side, and he cringed. During the day, when she was able to shriek and scream and push him away, it was easier to see her as the blood traitor, the hated, who deserved worse than he ever gave.

But here, naked, vulnerable and—frightened—it was nearly impossible to hate her. Instead, there was an annoying, sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, just inches above the red locks on his lap, and he couldn't make it go away.

He heard a faint creak from the hall, and his gray eyes were drawn to the doorway, where a cool pair of matching eyes took in the little tableau—saw clearly how the Weasley girl was so nicely broken, and how the Malfoy heir was so equally well-managed.

Draco's stomach turned, and he let his hand fall to the girl's back, as the fire died, pitching the room into darkness, unwittingly protective of his fellow pawn.

* * *

A/N: This one wants to be a full story...though it's surprisingly similar to _Red Ember_, so I'm not sure how that would work.

As is, only 394 words. ;)


	6. Breathless

She'd lingered too long over coffee.

Ginny Weasley hurriedly downed her drink and, grabbing her shoulder bag, hastened across the Rue Chatchmout, dodging the woman hawking roses that would make someone love you for a thousand minutes. She would have paused to laugh over this, but she'd learned by now that tardiness had painful consequences. She pushed her way through a crowd of tourists as she practically flew down the street, kicking up the autumn leaves as she went.

Her heels thudded on the hard stones as she left the main drag of wizarding Paris and turned onto a quieter avenue. Her heart beat with a fiercer rhythm than the shoulder bag's insistent banging into her side, and the air that filled her lungs as she ran was exhaled in expletives, but she barreled on through the wrought-iron gate to her building and climbed the stairs two by two, praying for a strange sort of clemency.

The flat was mercifully empty.

With a breathless sigh, Ginny dropped her bag in the grand foyer and rushed through the extravagant flat to her bedroom, where she pulled a green negligee from her bureau, then reached up to tug her top over her head.

"You're late."

The austere pronouncement came from the doorway, and still ensconced in cashmere, Ginny bit her lip. She finished pulling the material over her head and turned to him.

"I just need ten minutes," she said contritely. "Please."

She fought the temptation to react as his gray eyes appraised her still-heaving chest, covered only by the thin satin that some obscenely expensive boutique called a brassiere.

He stepped closer and ran his fingers down her cheek, then hooked them sharply under her chin, lifting her face to his.

"Of course, my dear. You may have ten, or fifteen, or twenty," he said softly, eyes glittering. "But you shall pay—dearly—for each minute I wait."

He ran his hand down her neck and along her collarbone, slipping his fingers under one satin strap. He smiled as he dragged the material off her shoulder with his fingernail, and Ginny caught her breath as a faint pink line rose in its wake.

"You know I do not like to wait, Ginevra."

She tucked her sense of righteous anger neatly inside her conscience and tried to breathe.

"Yes, Lucius," she said softly, and unclasped the bra.

* * *

A/N: This drabble is dedicated to tequila. Any mistakes are its fault, not mine.

Also, I don't remember how many words this is. But if anyone really cares, and it's more than 400, I shall edit.


	7. Pain

She hated him. He hated her.

And yet they found themselves tangled up in his sheets, her quilts, too often.

She slept with him to remember why she fought so hard.

He was the foil to her grief. She took everything out on his body: the narrow escapes, the maimed corpses, the scars. She drew them in bright lines across his gleaming, pale back, painted delicately with her cracked fingernails.

He slept with her to remember who he was.

She was the hold on his sanity. He felt her; he could feel little else. Every little moan he pounded out of her locked him into reality for a few precious minutes more, and her small fists in his cropped hair reminded him to breathe.

They'd each made it through another day, and that deserved a shag. A hard, rough, fend-for-yourself shag.

Then she'd return to Grimmauld without a word, and he'd dig his fingers into his left forearm and rejoin the deathly throng.

It was pure madness. It didn't make sense to either of them, and they didn't discuss it. But as he rolled onto his back and gasped for air, and as her vision began to clear, he knew that he needed her—and she knew that he was her way out.

* * *

A/N: A mere 213 this time. But I think I like it short.

Sorry the last couple have been rather dark—it's been that kind of week. I promise to do a happier one soon. :)


	8. Test

"Would you love me if I was fat?"

Draco curled an eyebrow up with disgust. "Gin," he groaned, "_Why_ are you asking me such a stupid question?"

Ginny frowned sullenly. "Because I _am_. So? Would you?"

"Yes. I suppose so," he said uneasily.

Her fists flew to her hips. "You 'suppose so'?"

"Yes, yes. I would. I'm _very_ certain," he said quickly, then compensated with a dramatic eye roll.

"Will you love me if I get wrinkles?"

"Of course I would," he drawled, sighing. "I'll love you when you're old, I'll love you if you get fat, I'll love you if—"

"Would you love me if I slept with another man?"

He was at her throat in an instant. "What man?" he demanded, his voice steely as he towered over her.

"So it would depend on the man?" Ginny said cattily.

"No, it would not 'depend on the man,' you insufferable witch." He stepped back and appraised her thoughtfully. "Whoever he his, he'll be dead before morning."

She laughed. "I'm not going to sleep with someone else. But if I did, would you still love me?"

Draco pursed his lips. "Yes," he finally sighed, "But I'd kill him. Slowly. And I'd probably have to lock you in my room while you learned your lesson."

"_Draco_!" Ginny chided, swatting his arm playfully. "Don't even joke about such things! You sound like your father." She shuddered.

Draco rolled his eyes. "Are you quite finished with your ridiculous little exam?"

She grinned cheekily. "Just one more question."

"Go ahead," he groaned, sending an exasperated glare aloft.

"Will you love me if I ask you enough silly questions to drive you 'round the bend?" she asked with mock sincerity.

He smiled wryly and looped his arm around her waist. "My darling Ginevra, the very fact that I agreed to marry such a witch is clear proof that I've been rather mad for some time. But the fact that I shall always love you, no matter what? I'm happy to report that I am thoroughly insane."

"Ha ha," she said dryly, jabbing her elbow into his ribs for good measure before she turned on him with a grin. "I think it's safe to say you pass with flying colors, Mr. Malfoy, which means you've earned a congratulatory kiss."

"Ah, I see. One I shall claim immediately, you can be sure."

* * *

A/N: Not sure how I feel about the characterizations here. But hey, I promised fluff! (And did you catch my joke, my fellow angsty-drama lovers? Or rather, Draco's joke?)

396 words. Whew.


	9. Drink

Lucius Malfoy swept up his glass and neatly deposited a solitary golden Galleon onto the bar, turning toward the dance floor with a frown. It was insensible to celebrate Lord Voldemort's defeat by throwing a lavish party every year.

But the Wizarding world was on its head. Its Muggle-loving, Weasley-led, idiotic head.

He swirled his drink as he scanned the crowd. He noticed Draco, a pretty girl on each arm—exotic beauties—and a drink in each hand. The philandering boy clearly hadn't yet learned how to properly enjoy women.

Lucius slipped the wedge of lime from the rim of his glass, enjoying the faint clink of the ice as it moved aside for the fruit, a delicate noise amid the hubbub that_ this_ world deemed society.

"Amaretto stone sour, please?"

Lucius assessed the woman—girl—who'd sidled up next to him at the crowded bar. Her rollicking waves of red hair betrayed her identity. But he also noticed her lean build and her graceful movements, and he wondered when the Weasley girl, a veritable princess in this new world order, had become a Quidditch player.

She glanced up at him carelessly, but as he sipped his own drink he noticed that she'd drawn her elbows closer to her chest, and that the muscles revealed by her low-backed azure gown were taut.

The fiery little beauty was scaredof him. Perfect.

"Miss Weasley, isn't it?" he murmured, setting his glass down near hands. She nodded absently, still trying to catch the bartender's attention.

He pulled another Galleon from the pocket of his dress robes and gently tapped it twice on the bar. The man was there in a moment. Arthur Weasley might win landslide victories, but Malfoy money would_ always_ ensure control.

"An amaretto stone sour," he ordered.

"Thank you," she whispered.

She sipped the drink warily, and he enjoyed the way she held it tightly with both hands, as if he'd need to touch her drink to harm her. Laughable.

He wouldn't hurt her. But her fear was interesting. And her fiery determination to _not_ be scared was interesting too. So easily manipulated.

He could take this Weasley apart. And perhaps, if the Minister's daughter was found in the arms of the enemy, the "new aristocracy" might return to its senses. The realization was intoxicating.

He turned back to the barkeep.

"I'll have another gin and tonic."

* * *

A/N: 398. I'm a bit scared of what he's going to do. I'm not sure exactly what that is, but I'm worried for her nonetheless. A rather large amount of manipulation and a fair bit of betrayal, to be sure.

Also, tequila apparently makes me write Lucius drabbles.


	10. Anger

He'd wronged her for the last time, and he was going to pay.

Ginny carefully crept down the corridor of Draco Malfoy's London flat, walking lightly. The polished oak was solid, but she didn't want to risk a creaking floorboard.

She wasn't really a vengeful person. Not really. Her temper was like a firecracker—it exploded at a volume that popped and echoed in your chest, but it drifted away into a smoky nothing, forgotten after a moment.

But _he_ was evil personified. _He_ deserved his just rewards.

She stole into the bedroom, relieved that the door was ajar. The shower was running in the adjoining bath, and she crossed her fingers that he'd stay in it. Draco dripping wet and wrapped in a towel would ruin the entire plan.

Not that she'd mind, under normal circumstances. For all his wicked, conniving ways, the man was _hot_.

But being caught red-handed in front of his bureau, her fingers clasped around his wand? That would cause all sorts of problems, from escaping his wrath to devising a new plan for revenge. That would take time, and Ginny did not share the popular position on chilled retribution.

She slipped his wand through her fingers and bit her lip. This next part was risky. But it would be so worth it.

He'd _pay_.

She reached her arm through the cracked door, hoping he wouldn't hear her over the noise of the water. Her fingers found their target—soft, warm cotton—and Ginny yanked the towel from its bar with a gleeful hiss.

She ran back down the hallway and threw the plush towel into the hall cupboard, where it landed in a heap on top of every other towel in the flat. Grinning, she looked down greedily at her stash of fine Egyptian cotton, and decided that premeditation had its advantages.

Twirling his wand in her fingers, she locked the cupboard door, and then slid the stick of hawthorn through the crack to join her sealed treasure trove.

The shower turned off, as if on cue, and she waited with baited breath.

A long moment passed. And then—"_Ginny_? What _have_ you done with my towel?"

He'd find them eventually. But he'd be dripping, naked, and just slightly blind with rage. He'd be mortified. Scarred for life.

He'd never leave his towel on the floor again.

* * *

A/N: To all my American readers: happy Independence Day. Like that firecracker simile? :)

And yes, this one comes from where you probably think it comes from. And no, it didn't work. Rawr.


	11. Dreams

As she laid the baby in his cradle, Narcissa had dreams.

Her baby would be happy. This darkness under which he'd been born would end, and her child would grow into a strong, capable young man. A good young man. She would be proud of him, and love him always.

As she mopped up the youngster's scraped knees and stubborn tears after a fall from his toy broom, Narcissa had dreams.

Her little boy would be safe. Whether he followed his small heart and played Quidditch, or followed in his father's footsteps and pursued...well—she'd do everything in her power to keep him was safe. She'd buy the best Quidditch gear money could afford, and she would be proud of him, and love him always.

As she snuck a kiss onto the first-year's cheek on Platform 9 and ¾, Narcissa had dreams.

Her lad would have friends. The loneliness his childhood would be replaced by the throngs of happy students. He'd find friends galore, and companions to confide in. She'd send him sweets to share with them, and she would be proud of him, and love him always.

As the tall fifth—no, sixth-year—came home, tense as a caged lion, Narcissa had dreams.

Her boy would be free. The brewing evil that Lucius murmured about late at night would not touch. He would escape it, fleeing to happier lands. He would dwell in sunshine and—and she would be proud of him, and love him always.

As the recruit inhaled sharply while the Dark Lord marked him as his own, Narcissa had dreams.

Her son would be good. He would not be corrupted forever by this powerful wizard, by his father's scheming, by the power-hungry pure blood that roiled through his veins. His heart would be whole—and she would be proud of him, and love him always.

As the young man pushed the newly-captured redhead past her through the hall, roughly shoving her into his room, Narcissa had dreams.

Her child would love. He'd recognize the brittle nature of an empty heart and his soul would tear asunder. He'd love and be loved, and she would be proud of him, and love him always.

As the father-to-be watched the red haired girl cry out with labor pains, Narcissa had dreams.

Her grandchild would be happy. And she would be proud.

And love them both always.

* * *

A/N: I love that this challenge allows me to explore things that I normally would chalk up to sheer insanity, or projects and plots that seemed too daunting to actually write. This idea popped into my head months ago, and I actually saved it to my voicemail (of all places).

It needs a bit of spit-and-polish, but I enjoyed writing it all the same. :)


	12. Puzzle

Draco Malfoy's partner was certifiably an idiot.

"Malfoy, would you stop painting your fingernails and help me expose these runes?" she said, scowling. Her freckles scrunched up across her nose as her mouth knit into an angry pout; the expression was unbecoming.

He didn't move. "A manicure is a sign of good breeding, Weasley. And you're uncovering the wrong set. Based on the glyph in the corner, those are from the ninth century, and we're looking for a code from the seventh." Her bum, he noted, which rounded out nicely as she bent over the slab in the middle of the cave, was an agreeable enough view.

Weasley let out a low hiss as she realized his genius observation.

"You could have mentioned that a quarter hour ago," she said with a glare.

"I could have, but I was too distracted by my fingernails," he said cattily.

The Weasley rose up to her full height—so she could stare him in the nose, he mused—and jammed her hands onto her hips. "Look, Malfoy. I didn't ask for this assignment. But if the D.o.M. wants to solve a stupid Runic puzzle, they need an archeologist and a Runes expert. I'll do the hard part and get the bloody dirt out of the way, but you need to translate the fucking symbols for me."

He rolled his eyes for her benefit.

"If I tell you where to look, will you hurry it up?"

She turned a brighter shade of crimson, and he briefly wondered if she'd actually burst if he continued in this vein. He decided against this—entertaining, but messy.

"There, on the far side of the cave. Those are futhorc, pre-dating the Latin influences," he said, pointing.

She shone her lit wand at the low wall and murmured a few specialized revealing spells, vanishing only the newest dirt. She cast another spell and the wall turned iridescent, revealing the passage of time in colors. The runes shone out blue against red.

"This is our puzzle," she said. "Seventh century. I guess you do know your stuff, Malfoy."

As if she should doubt him.

She turned toward him, her hair lit brightly by the matching wall behind her, and flashed him a winning smile.

"I suppose working together isn't so bad, right?"

He bit his tongue.

Draco Malfoy's partner was certifiably pretty when she smiled.

* * *

A/N: 395 on the first draft! Woohoo! I'm getting used to the word limit – I can _feel_ it.

I'm not that brilliant about runes, but Wikipedia came in mighty handy for this lil guy (I know I'm a nerd! Who does research for _drabbles_? D: )

Oh, and a special prize to anyone who manages to review them ALL. Hey, only 88 to go!


	13. Discrepant

Most of the boys at school went about with wrinkled collars and loose shirts. They seemed to forgot they were wizards with the power to_ Accio_ missing buttons, and one could count the number of boys with a properly knotted tie on one hand.

But Malfoy?

Malfoy had a perfect Windsor knot. Daily. And when he loosened it after class and pushed the perfectly sewn cuffs of his tailored Oxford up to his elbows, the result was downright delectable.

He'd sit in the Clock Tower Courtyard during his free period and read his Potions text—presumably his next class—and he'd work this bit of magic on his tie, lean against a column and let his hair fall across his forehead as he bent his head to read.

Not to mention his trousers, which were masterpieces capable of bringing the most stoic tailor to tears. Unsurprisingly, the amount of female students in the courtyard tripled whenever Malfoy took a study break.

Of course, Ginny Weasley avoided said courtyard with obsessive compulsion. Her hand-me-down robes were tattered, and no matter how lovingly patched and transfigured to suit them to her smaller frame, they were obviously made for a broad shouldered boy, not an almost-but-not-_quite_-curvy girl.

She wasn't ashamed, she'd remind herself while dodging Perfection Defined in he hallway. She was intelligently avoiding public humiliation, from him or anyone else. But especially him.

So when her nose collided with Malfoy's faultless Windsor knot in an out-of-the-way school corridor, she got up and ran—_ran_—the other way. Gryffindor courage _defined_, she thought sarcastically.

But—"Weaslette? What on earth?" he drawled slowly, and like a gnat to a torch, she turned and walked back to him. He held out the Potions book she'd dropped, and she snatched it, drawing the text close to keep the largest patches away from those sharp gray eyes.

"I—I was—I mean—" she stuttered, hating the way his gray eyes were fixed on her with something not unlike _interest_, following her stutters with little quirks of his delicate eyebrows.

"I won't tell anyone that you're hiding from me if you won't tell that I'm hiding from them," he said nonchalantly. He lifted the corners of his mouth into something between a smirk and a smile. "Shall we just wait here for a bit until they're all gone?"

He reached up slowly…and loosened his tie.

* * *

A/N: This drabble brought to you by Bad Romance, which has been on repeat in my earbuds the entire time I've been writing. Because if I'm doing a drabble every day, why end the self-torture there?

I'm not sure about this one. I tried something different—Hogwarts era, Ginny with a crush to end all crushes…it was interesting. Not how I usually characterize either one. Does it have a hint of promise? Or is this a fail?

(Oh, and the discrepancy is in their status in life, from wealth to confidence, and it's evidenced by their clothes. In case, like me, you've also been listening to Gaga all night and have summarily zapped your mental faculties.)


	14. Holiday

The shore spread itself long and wide, eagerly inviting the aquamarine waves to lap at the white sand. Ginny reclined on a low chaise not far from the water and gazed past the leafy palm fronds into the cloudless sky before she closed her eyes. The air was palpable, warm and thick with humidity, ocean salt, and verdant jungle smells.

"I do love you in green."

Ginny snapped to attention. Draco was standing over her, arms folded sternly, but the smirk on his face was anything but.

She scowled. "I don't understand what's so awful about a regular bathing suit," she muttered, flipping her sunglasses down over her eyes.

"Ohhh," he breathed sarcastically, as though humoring a petulant child. He sat down alongside her on the chaise. "But I _like _skimpy bikinis. They mean I can do this," he said, and ran his fingers from her neck, over her barely-there top, and all the way down to her navel. He splayed his hand possessively over her stomach, and despite the hot day, she shivered, stifling the temptation to pull away—there was no need to repeat _that_ lesson.

Lifting her sunglasses from her face and tossing them onto the sand, he whispered, "Don't you dare hide from me, Ginevra. You ought to know I'm smarter than that by now."

He unbuttoned his white shirt, and the loose linen blew around his torso in the breeze that eked its way through the humid air.

"And skimpy bikinis make this so much better," he said quietly, and leaned down over her, letting his bare skin drag against hers as he brought his mouth gently to hers, kissing her slowly, After a moment, he brought his hand under her head and lifted it from the chair, scooping her up to deepen the kiss. This time, he was leisurely in his exploration, and against her better judgment, Ginny kissed him back.

He finally pulled away, and Ginny realized that they were both breathing heavily—most certainly the fault of the exhausting weather. They stared at each other for a long moment, until she bit her lips and broke the silence.

"The paparazzi are back, aren't they?"

He sighed with a soft "mmhmm," and she frantically hid the sinking feeling in her stomach as he leaned down over her for another long, slow photo-op.

* * *

A/N: I _know_. This is a blatant Red Ember cookie. I didn't intend it that way, but I was stuck on the holiday at the beach idea, and by the time this was half written, I realized that I was essentially writing my Red Ember characters. This will definitely make more sense if you're familiar with the story, though I like to think it stands alone fairly well. Fairly.

Besides, this was written for the 100 Drabbles in 100 Days challenge, and may or may not make its way into the actual story. All's fair in drabbles and forced island vacations, right?


	15. Mirror

Soft, well-managed tendrils framed her face with delicate red curls. They gently brushed her creamy cheeks, and she recalled a distant memory of freckles—freckles like cinnamon on French toast.

She licked her lips, a remaining habit of tomboyish days that refused to step aside for well-mannered graces, and selected a thin brush and began to line her eyes with dark gray kohl. Her practiced fingers handled the thin instrument deftly, but she concentrated on the smoky lines nonetheless.

Setting the liner down, she lifted the corners of her mouth in the ghost of a smile and brushed a soupcon of rouge across the apples of her cheeks, licking her lips again as she set down the fluffy brush and sighed at herself.

Opening the jewelry chest on her dressing table, she selected a thin chain of diamonds and lifted it to her neck, watching the way they sparkled in the low light and ignoring the dead, cold weight at her collarbone.

"Not that one. This," said her husband, standing behind her. He lifted an elaborate necklace of emerald and topaz from the chest, and she licked her lips as their eyes locked in the mirror.

She held the diamonds at her neck for a long moment, but he waited silently behind her, unmoving. "Draco, I—"

"Lift your hair, please," he commanded quietly.

She breathed out the impending rebellion and laid the diamonds on the table, then lifted the curls from her neck with a sweeping motion.

She felt the warmth of him at her back as his cool fingers threaded the heavy jewels around her neck, reaching through her looped arm to pull the platinum around to clasp it tightly. He bent slightly, and she smelled his heady cologne as he gently kissed the nape of her neck. She licked her lips one more time as he met her eyes in the mirror, studying her finished appearance.

"Just as I like you," he said, smoothing the already-smooth tendrils. "Perfect."

* * *

A/N: Bit dark, I know. I think this one might fit in the same universe as drabble #2. Or #14...what do _you_ think?

Apologies for the erratic updating. A promotion and a family tragedy have complicated life, and they'll probably continue to be sporadic for another week or two. But I shall soldier on - never give up, never surrender! (props if you catch the quote).


	16. Seeking Peace

This was getting out of hand.

Ginny couldn't remember where it had started. Possibly when Nott and Zabini had charmed Crookshanks to shock everyone—leaving Hermione with hair so frizzy it stood on end for a week.

Or maybe it was when Ron had used his latest batch of WWW products to dye Draco's platinum hair a Slytherin green. The outraged Malfoy had gone from coiffed perfection to punk rocker in a matter of seconds, but it took the better part of a month to return it to normal.

Then there was the charmed Quaffle that shrieked "Weasley is our king!" in three-part harmony throughout the entire Gryffindor-Hufflepuff match, and the Slytherin table having only gruel at breakfast every Wednesday the entire term (Dobby, it seemed, was not above taking sides).

Then, one fateful Tuesday, Hermione couldn't find a matched pair of socks, Crabbe could eat only vegetables, Parkinson had a pug-tail removed _twice_, Neville spent an entire morning hopping everywhere, Bulstrode's clothes were fuschia, Colin's camera put bunny ears on everything, and Ginny decided she'd had _enough_.

She followed Draco Malfoy, tailing him until he'd dismissed Crabbe and Goyle (the former mournfully chomping on a celery stick). She stepped out to call his name, and—

"I know you're there, Weasley. What's it to be, green hair or bat bogeys?" he said wearily.

Ginny froze. "Err…I just…I wanted to…"

"Did someone jinx you to make a fool of yourself or do you have something to say?" he drawled, crossing his arms.

She scowled. "I want this war to stop, Malfoy. I can get Harry and Ron to lay off, and the rest of the Gryffindors, if you'll agree to tell Slytherin to cease and desist."

Malfoy leaned back and considered this. "How do I know this isn't a trick?"

"Because I'm a Gryffindor, not a deceitful little dungeon dweller."

"Tut, tut, Weasley. Name calling and diplomacy don't mix." He slowly smirked. "But I think I'll make you a deal. If you really want peace, you'll agree to my terms."

"Okay…" she said hesitantly.

"I want a kiss. A good one."

"WHAT?"

No one commented when Draco spent the rest of Tuesday swatting bat bogeys, or noticed that Ginny had an indelible snake on her _derriere _for the next month.

But when the prank war mysteriously ended two weeks later, all were thankful—and Ron was too exhausted to kill his sister's new boyfriend.

* * *

A/N: Uh, fanon much? I crack myself up...


	17. Questioning

"There, that should hold you quite nicely. Flex your wrists for me, please."

Ginny glared at her captor. "You're despicable," she spat. Clearly, if he hadn't done such an excellent job securing her to the chair, she'd be ripping out his jugular vein with her fingernails.

"Oh, come now. Be a good girl for me. I have a simple job; it would be a shame if I did it improperly."

She scoffed. "I thought you were intelligent, Zabini. Slughorn seemed to think so, remember? And now they've got you tying knots like a Muggle."

He bent over to check that her ankles were securely fastened and flashed a smile up at her. "Oh, yes. Knots which shall leave no trace of magic behind. Wands and potions are traceable, but knots and knives? One has to appreciate the stark, simple beauty of Muggle methodology."

Knives? She shivered, instantly regretting it when she saw the knowing twinkle in his eye.

"I'm not talking," she announced. He was cracked, but the idea of Zabini as a menacing torturer was ridiculous. "I'd rather die than betray the Order."

Zabini threw his head back and laughed. "Everyone talks, Ginny," he said easily, as though he was laughing over happy hour drinks and not Muggle torture.

She harrumphed, choosing to pretend that his behavior was perfectly normal. "I'm not everyone."

"Sulk all you like, love. Malfoy will rip you apart like a Christmas orange."

Ginny swallowed. Draco was a bit more frightening than his friend. "Malfoy?"

"A word to the wise?" Zabini winked. "Answer his questions before you're a bloody, irreparable little mess. He's been known to be merciful to the pretty boys and girls."

She held in another cold shiver as he finished grinning over his handiwork.

"Can you move at all, darling?" he asked brightly. "No? Perfect." He smiled and dragged the door to the small chamber over the rough stones to open it.

"She's ready, my lord."

She noticed that his voice had a different timbre—lower, quieter—and she wondered when he'd come to _fear_ his old schoolmate.

But then the cool fingers slipped over her cheek and down her neck, freezing her ability to wonder anything at all.

"My, my, Ginevra. How you've grown."

* * *

A/N: This was way darker the first go-round. You should thank the word limit.


	18. Red

A/N: This one definitely deserves that T rating for things illicit. It's not graphic (IMHO), but I still feel compelled to issue this warning: be warned.

* * *

There was something familiar about her hair.

He dismissed the thought as he offered the beauty a drink. Blaise teased him for hiring the girls, but he paid them for the same reason he paid his gardener. It meant less work for more pleasure, and wasn't that the whole point of being wealthy?

It was a lovely red, not quite auburn but rich and vibrant nonetheless.

She gave him the barest hint of a smile as she sipped the gin and tonic, listening quietly to his proposition. She wasn't a cheap thing to be found under a streetlight; no, this one had class. Perhaps even dignity, he mused. And dignity was pricey. But he could do pricey.

He ignored the elusive memory and just enjoyed the way the crimson locks tumbled down her bare back.

Her class—dignity—extended to his bedchamber, and he found he enjoyed that. She wasn't afraid to say no, but when she said yes, every Galleon was worth it. Her skin was smooth as cream and delicious as strawberries, and he enjoyed it slowly, meandering along in a hedonistic exploration of her naked body, appreciating every little arch under his hands; every little moan into his mouth.

He gripped her hair tightly between his fingers, bright color contrasting against pale skin.

He practically saw stars as she wrapped her lithe legs around him, pulling him close and pressing her nose into his neck, filling his senses with those glorious red locks as he died that small death—died, and remembered. He sat up slowly and watched her whole body try to remember how to breathe properly; watched her drag an arm over her head to pull that telltale hair away from her face as she looked up at him, wide-eyed but sated.

He smirked.

Weasley was an amazing shag.

* * *

This drabble brought to you by Explosions in the Sky - The Only Moment We Were Alone.


	19. Happiness

He had a smile that could light up the sun.

Ginny watched her fiancé—the word still felt deliciously, decadently thrilling—lounge on their picnic blanket, leaning back on his elbows, and grin. She loved the way his gray eyes sparkled in the summer dusk and the way the sun's slanting light was easily trapped in his white-blonde hair.

But it was the smile that made her hold her breath.

He'd kept it so carefully guarded for so long. She remembered that first awkward meet-up at The Leaky Cauldron—after not seeing one another for over five years, it would have been odd if it _hadn't _been awkward. It was immediately clear that he'd grown out of the bullying, spoiled schoolboy and into a reserved, graceful man, and she would have had to lie to say she wasn't smitten, even if he didn't laugh at her jokes.

But he had been so cool, so quiet, so—well, arrogant, she decided—that she'd dismissed the encounter. And was subsequently floored when the orchids and the invitation to dinner had arrived the next day.

So floored she'd turned him down.

Gentleman or not, he was a Malfoy, and there were old grudges, a feud, and a decided lack of friendliness on his part. But the flowers kept coming, even though the gray eyes were solemn. And then—the torrential downpour, the red umbrella that should have been black, impudently belonging to a Malfoy like that, and the barest hint of a grin as she bestowed a dramatic thanks upon "her hero."

And took him up on that offer of dinner, once she was dry.

Slowly, so slowly it almost hurt, the oddity that was Draco Malfoy began to unfold and surrender. Through trials and tribulations, Ginny discovered when to pry and when to be silent—as his soul learned to smile, hers learned to wait. She found he was not unlike the delicately carved puzzle box he handed her exactly a year after that dinner—the puzzle box that contained an heirloom, a diamond heirloom.

And her subsequent burst of incandescently happy laughter was met by a steady smile—

A smile that could light the sun.

* * *

I wanted to try the other kind of fire and ice here—exuberance and reservation instead of the usual temper and snark. I think I like it. Do you?


	20. Family

"Dad, Lucas tricked me _again_. He got the fast broom when it was my turn."

Draco steepled his fingertips and stared down at the blank parchment. He exhaled slowly and turned to his son.

"Your brooms," he said slowly, "are _identical_."

"But Lucas said—"

Draco held up his hand, and his son was instantly silent. "I believe eight-year-olds are perfectly capable of diplomacy. Don't interrupt me again unless you're bleeding."

The freckled blond pouted. "But—"

"_Marc_."

The boy turned and mumbled, "Mum would have sorted it."

Draco ignored this and turned his focus back to his letter. One did not write letters to the Minister of Magic lightly. But—

"Daddy! Daddy, I'm _hurted_. Very, very badly hurted!"

A smaller golden-haired child appeared in the door. Tears wobbled in her gray eyes as she leaned against the sill, clutching her head dramatically.

"Where are you hurt? How?" Draco demanded, lifting her into his arms.

She pointed to her forehead. "Grayson pushed me. I'm hurted so badly!" she wailed.

Draco inspected her head carefully. "I really don't see anything wrong, Lyra," he said slowly. "Are you sure you're hurt?"

She stuck her lip out and nodded. "Mum gives me lollies when I'm hurted," she confided.

Draco nodded absently and conjured the sweet. As soon as she grasped the stick, she bounced out of the room. "Hey Grayson," the four-year-old crowed, "I got a lolly and you _don't_!"

Draco collapsed into his chair, determined to finish a letter before another child got away with murder. But as he picked up his quill, an owl swooped in, dropping an envelope on his desk. With a weary sigh, he broke the familiar Hogwarts seal.

_Dear Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy,_

_Your presence is requested at a conference to discuss Alexia's recent behavior in Mr. Potter's Defense Against the Dark Arts class._

_M. McGonagall, Headmaster_

"Not again," he groaned.

He heard a loud crash from somewhere down the hall and sank back into his chair. Picking up his quill once more, he wrote:

_Dearest Gin,_

_I hope your first day as Minister is going as smoothly as my first day home with the children. They're such angels; it's a delight to spend time with them._

_On an unrelated note, I've decided to hire several nannies. _

_Can't wait until you get home,_

_Draco_

_P.S. McGonagall wants to meet with you to discuss Alexia's…progress in DADA._

_

* * *

_

A/N: I was in an angsty mood and was sorely tempted to have Draco just kill them all off. But then I was reminded of that scene in Cheaper by the Dozen where Steve Martin's character is on the phone with his wife and the kids are being insane-remember? He tells her they're angels as the axehead comes flying into the door. And I love that movie, so I just went with it.


	21. Divorce

"So is it to be divorce, then?" Ginny asked quietly, watching him lean against the bed frame like a rabbit eyeing a hawk.

"Divorce?" He laughed quietly. "After spending the last few years intimating you with all the particulars of my life_,_ you think I'm going to sign a few papers and release you into the great, wide Wizarding world to betray me further?"

Ginny slipped off her gloves, slowly pulling the silk over her forearms. "I could take it to the Wizengamot," she said bravely.

He leaned over and caressed her head tenderly. "You could, but I have a lovely bit of evidence that you've been a very bad girl. And if your darling Order friends are capable of framing me, just imagine what my father's friends could do to your reputation?"

He paused and kissed her forehead. The gentle caress turned into a vice-like grip at the base of her neck as he leveled his eyes with hers. "You're not going anywhere, and you know that."

Ginny swallowed. "I can explain—"

"Oh, you'll explain," he whispered, his eyes glittering angrily. "But first, you need to wipe any notion of divorce from your pretty little head." His fingers had slipped into her hair, and his tightening grip brought tears to her eyes.

"Consider it gone," she hissed angrily. "You're hurting me, Draco."

He sneered. "You're going to have to do a bit better than that."

Lifting his other hand, he cupped her face, smoothing his thumb across her freckled cheekbone. "Let's see—I think it was 'to have and to hold, for better or worse,' right?"

Ginny nodded slowly, and he smiled, his expression unreadable. "So however shall you prove your undying loyalty to me, Gin? Because I'd so hate to make it 'worse'."

Ginny glared at him. "You tell me, you conceited—"

He slipped his hand over her mouth. "I'd rather not start by taming your tongue," he said smoothly, trapping her head neatly between his hands. "Why don't I give you some time to think it over, and then we'll see if divorce is still in your vocabulary?"

He bent closer and slipped his hand away from her mouth, sliding his thumb against her lips to part them as he leaned in for a gentle, firm kiss.

With that, he stood and left the bedchamber – locking the door behind him.

* * *

A/N: Yes, this decidedly unhealthy relationship is a continuation of the arc from drabble #2.


	22. Flying

The tap at Ginny's window was just enough to startle her awake, and she sat up, dazed. The room was dark, and moonlight filtered through the cotton curtains of her tiny room, spreading a cool blanket across her bed.

The glass rattled again, and she craned her neck to see what was at the window. Probably just Errol, confused as usual. Just then, the patch of moonlight shifted, and Ginny inhaled sharply at the familiar profile silhouetted on her well-worn quilt.

Leaping from her bed, she rushed to the window and swung it out from the casement. Draco Malfoy hovered at eyelevel, kicked back on his posh broom.

"What on earth are you doing here? My parents will kill you—and my brothers—"

He grinned cheekily. "It wouldn't be a forbidden romance if they offered me tea and biscuits, would it?"

She smiled. "Or if you came to visit at normal times."

"You know how I love any opportunity to sneak around. Remember our broom closet?"

She blushed. She'd been dreaming about that broom closet.

"It's a perfect night. Full moon, summer breeze—come fly with me, Ginny."

She laughed. "Draco, it's after midnight—and I'm a wreck."

"I spend my life with people who are perpetually perfect. And I happen to think bedhead is sexy." He held out his hand. "C'mon, love."

She took it tightly in her own, ducking her head to climb out of the window as he carefully held her waist and eased her onto the broom. She wrapped her arms around his waist and inhaled deeply, reassured by the sweet amber and vanilla that was her boyfriend.

Silently, he kicked off and the two shot up into night, joining the bright stars as they skimmed the trees that rimmed the yard of the Burrow and set a course for the brilliant summer moon.

* * *

A/N: I blame this fluff ENTIRELY on the soundtrack to Peter Pan, particularly the track called Flying. Because of the prompt—but mostly because I adore that piece of music almost as much as I adore m&ms. And that's saying something.


	23. Drowning

"_Don't play near the river, darling."_

She first noticed that he no longer bullied Ron and Harry, and then that he'd ditched Parkinson and the goons in favor of spending hours and hours in the library. But he only captured her curiosity when she caught him staring down the gray sky above the Astronomy tower as if his life depended on it—and his only response to her feeble joke (hard to see the stars through all that, isn't it?) was an arched brow instead of a scathing remark. And you know what they say about curiosity.

"_It's far too easy for children to fall in—the banks are steep."_

She was drawn to him like a gnat to a lamp. First he didn't notice, then he pretended not to notice—but his stealthy, steely glances were not lost on the sharp little Gryffindor. One day he shut his book with a loud slam and stood up from his library table, swung around, and confronted her. Ready for a battle, she pointed out that the library was a public place, and was shocked when he exhaled in defeat and sat down across from her. After that, there was an unspoken sort of peace between them. They spent hours in the library, the tower, the grounds, usually silent.

"_If you fall in, the current will drag you under."_

The first time he reached over to hold her hand, she was dazed. There was no electric shock, no hum of butterflies, but she was tugged even closer to his silence and pulled even deeper into his soul. She found the dark tattoo on his forearm in the winter, when the days die young, and even though her stomach wrenched in disgust, her fingers stayed entwined—entangled—with his. And when he kissed her, she let him do more.

"_A current strong enough to drown a grown man, much less a child."_

He wrapped that arm around her bare stomach nearly every night, and she missed it when he didn't. The brooding darkness she'd hoped to escape was growing around them every day, gray instead of black. The world was rotting from the inside out, and Draco wouldn't tell her why.

It didn't matter. She'd given up on breathing long ago.

A/N: I don't like this one. It's too weird, and not at all like I wanted. Oh well.


	24. Bed

Draco Malfoy liked to sprawl out. Legs flung to the corners of the preposturously large bed, arms spread in a loving embrace of fine Egyptian cotton. Dozens of fluffy pillows? A given. He wasn't fond of sharing, but by the time he was old enough, he could put up with a girl wrapped somewhere in his sheets. They rarely spent the night, anyway—who would enjoy a walk of shame from Malfoy Manor?

And so Draco slept.

But _Ginny _liked to sleep over. She had a fondness for breakfast, she said sardonically when he delicately suggested that she'd be more comfortable elsewhere. For some inane reason, he had a very difficult time manipulating Ginny Weasley into doing anything he wanted at all.

And so Draco married her.

She was a neater sleeper than he, but her habit of rolling onto his side took some getting used to. Honestly. The mattress was large enough that they could both have sprawled out and been _fine_. Waking up with someone's elbow in your face is generally unpleasant. But he'd learned the hard way that when your wife is heavily pregnant and comfortably asleep for once, you don't move her.

And so Draco suffered long.

Infants had a terrible propensity to wake up at all hours of the night, he learned. He had to agree with his wife's idea that having the babies in the room, next to the bed, was more convenient than having them down a long corridor. Corridors at Malfoy Manor were rather long and dark at godforsaken, baby-waking hours.

And so Draco was sleep-deprived.

Worse than infants were toddlers—then preschoolers. The amount of 'bad dweams' under his roof was absolutely _ridiculous_, he fumed. But those golden-haired, dimple cheeked darlings were somehow difficult to deny, and now his bed more often than not contained six tiny cold feet and six surprisingly hard knees.

And so Draco was crowded.

But children do grow, he realized with delight, then sadness as the youngest darling lost both her dimples and her nightmares. He ordered more pillows and pulled Ginny close—not a difficult feat, as she still rolled to him in her sleep. He flung his legs out to the far corners of the bed and let his arms embrace the fine linen, wishing for the first time that the bed was_ just_ a little cozier.

And so Draco loved.

* * *

A/N: I rather love this Draco, even if he is more than a little self-absorbed. That's probably why I love him - LOL.

I feel like I channeled _Of Midnight Marriages and Impeccable Style_ while writing this, and now I have a strange desire to dive back into that story. Oh dear.


	25. Balloon

Lucius watched his grandson, eyes bright with awe, turn the shiny, golden Galleon in his small hands. The young boy was oblivious to the bustling world of Diagon Alley just outside the shop window of Fontenescue's.

"A wonderful thing, is it not?" the older man said gravely. "Money is a powerful thing, Alexander. You can tear apart kingdoms and put them back together if you learn to wield it well."

Alexander looked up at him with the wide eyes he'd inherited from his mother. "Truly, Grandfather? Kingdoms?"

"Indeed," Lucius said, nodding. "That solitary Galleon shall be the first of many. If you're quite done with your ice cream, we'll head to Gringotts to open your first vault."

The child bent his red-gold head over his bowl and finished the sundae hastily. "Done."

"You've something on your chin," Lucius said austerely.

Alexander sighed and wiped at his face. "Okay, I'm ready now." He fingered the hard, gold metal as Lucius paid the bill, then jumped up to walk out ahead of his grandfather. He paused at the sidewalk and offered Lucius his small hand, which the older man took after a second's pause.

"Now, there are several things you must consider when investing your wealth," Lucius began, but his grandson interrupted him.

"Look! Grandfather! Balloons!"

Lucius turned to see a street vendor carrying a large bunch of balloons enchanted like animals. As he watched, an elephant-shaped balloon trumpeted his horn, and Lucius shuddered. Some people had no class when it came to the application of magical power.

But Alexander seemed to have other ideas. "Grandfather, I want a balloon! Please, Grandfather."

Lucius grasped the boy's hand firmly and strode away down the street. "No, Alexander. Those cost money, and they're a waste."

The boy tugged insistently. "No, Grandfather! I want the lion! And I _have _money!"

He yanked his hand away and sprinted back down the street. Lucius watched gravely as the boy handed his precious Galleon over to the vendor and received a roaring blue lion in return, then skipped back with glee, change clanging in his hands.

The elder man sighed and grasped the small hand again, pulling the five-year-old into the hallowed halls of Gringotts to open an account with sixteen sickles and twenty-one knuts.

Maybe he'd have to break tradition and entail the estate on little Giselle. She seemed extremely tight-fisted. For an infant.

* * *

**A/N:** I know it might have fit Lucius better to have him drag the child into the bank sans-balloon to teach him a lesson, but I like to think that age and grandchildren have softened him somewhat. Besides, in my head, Ginny threatened him a good deal before she let him take the boy out alone – hence the ice cream. ;)


	26. Compressed

A/N: Another warning for illicit acts. Use discretion.

* * *

She liked his weight.

She always noticed the way his eyes would slide over her when she slipped into the hotel room, as though he could melt the clothes from her body and sear her soul with that gray, steely stare, but that was okay, because she didn't feel like she had a soul when eyes like those looked for it.

And she always shivered at the way he ran his hands down her sides, along her arms and over her waist, flaring out over her hips to grasp the hem of her dress and then up, up over her head. He never let her undress herself, but again, that was fine. She never felt like herself during this. She felt like a doll.

His kisses always stole her breath. He'd cup her cheek, her chin, her neck, always weaving his hands through her red curls as he invaded her mouth. No matter how many times he petted and plundered, it felt unreal. Like a dream.

But it was later, when he'd divested her of her clothes and stripped off his own, later when he'd climbed on top and leaned into her. He covered her completely; he owned her completely. His weight pressed her back into the downy bed, and she fought to breathe; fought to dream.

Because his weight reminded her that she wasn't a doll. She wasn't dreaming. She had a soul.

And it belonged to him.

* * *

A/N: In my head, this is Lucius. Because I've been drinking tequila, I'm sure. But if you want it to be Draco, that's fine too.


	27. Reinvigorated

A/N: This one gets a warning for Ginny's potty mouth.

* * *

"_You're a gigantic, self-absorbed git. And you're spoiled, to boot! If I were you, I'd jump off the Astronomy Tower and _hope_ my parents would show up to my funeral!"_

Draco Malfoy was rarely speechless. Of course, he was also incredibly intimidating, so it was rare that anyone attempted anything that could have possibly incapacitated his ability to drawl an awe-inducing insult that would send half the student body to their towers, crying. But this one didn't. This one was…invigorating.

"_You're nothing but a wanking prick! Leave Lovegood alone and go sod off if you want female company, you bastard!"_

But it came to his attention mid-year that a certain fiery Gryffindor seemed to have absolutely no fear of these witty little insults. When he grew tired of the fawning masses, he'd seek out this strange, crude-tongued witch. She was compelling, if only because he'd never heard such words come from the sweet shape of a school girl's mouth. The sweet, utterly kissable shape of a schoolgirl's mouth.

"_Are you stalking me, arsehole? Leave me the fuck alone! I'm trying to go to class and be with my friends, you manky berk!"_

She was so predictable, so easy—but not in the way he was used to. No, the Weasel's sister's eyes would snap instead of melting, and her chest would rise and fall with that feral, unfettered anger. It was invigorating. It was alive. And she was damn good-looking when her eyes sparkled like that.

"_Go to Hogsmeade? With a tosser like you? Hello, the world's greatest prat has lost his mind—and probably his balls. Hard to keep track of things that are that tiny."_

She'd met him at Hogsmeade, and he wasn't surprised. Then he managed to snog her senseless even as she punctuated their kisses by opening her sweet little mouth to unleash another torrent of foul passion, practically tearing his hear from his scalp in a crazed fury as she snogged him senseless.

"_Fuck you, Malfoy!"_

Oh yes.

Yes indeed.

* * *

A/N: I think this one is a bit loose on the prompt. I tried to suggest that Draco is often bored by how most people acquiesce, so when he needs to be 'reinvigorated' he seeks out a little verbal abuse from Miss Weasley. Too far fetched? Hate it? Love it? Let me know!


	28. Spilled Milk

"Grayson, put your milk _down_," Draco ordered with a murderous glare across the table. "So help me, I will break your mother's rule and give you a good old-fashioned spanking if it spills," he hissed, hoping Ginny was out of hissing range.

She wasn't.

"Draco! He's two and a half," Ginny exclaimed, buttoning her new emerald business robes as she crossed the breakfast parlor to grab a warm croissant from the table. "If he spills that milk, it's on you, not him. Now, good morning." She bent over and kissed the nearly identical males – the small one on the head, the grown one on the mouth.

"Oh Mum! You look _so_ beautiful!" cried a small voice from the doorway.

Draco smirked. "I was just about to say that," he whispered in his wife's ear.

Lyra sashayed across the room, sweeping her nightdress up in her hands as she dipped a grandiose curtsy to the assembled party. "When I'm grown, I'm going to be the Minister of Magic too, and I shall wear the grandest purple robes. I am 'sessed with purple!"

"Grayson! Don't throw your milk around like that!"

"Draco, don't yell at him."

"Did you all see my purple nightgown?"

Ginny sighed and bit into her roll. "Yes, dear. It's lovely. Draco, maybe we should look into getting those Muggle cups Mione has. With lids?"

Draco looked up at her archly. "The other children made it through infancy with perfectly respectable cups in normal colors. He'll learn."

A herd of elephants sounded in the hall, but instead of large gray mammals, two strawberry-blonde, freckled boys burst through the door simultaneously, each trumpeting his own victory.

"You're so slow, Marc! A snail'd beat you in a race."

"Oh yeah? Well you're so stupid that a snail'd beat you at _everything_, Lucas!"

Ginny and Draco silenced each twin with a glare—hers resembled her mother's, and his resembled murder.

"Morning Mum, Dad," they chorused in chagrined unison, seating themselves at the table.

"Grayson!"

"_Draco_!"

"Can I have purple pancakes?"

"Your breakfast looks like snail poop."

Draco pinched the bridge of his nose and looked up at his wife, who was distractedly eating her croissant.

"Ginny, I forgot to mention it last night, but McGonagall wrote again about Alexa's behavior toward Potter."

She groaned. "Not again. Third time this _month_."

And with that, Grayson finally toppled his glass of milk.

* * *

**A/N:** Yes, same characters as the "Family" drabble. I think I'm rather fond of chaos. ;)

Also, those of you who mentioned that I needed to do fewer dark drabbles and more lighthearted ones, how am I doing? Are you ready for a dark one? Or should I stick with the offspring? :P


	29. Contempt

A/N: This continues from Broken and Divorce.

* * *

Ginny sank off the edge of the bed and hugged her knees into her chest, swallowing to keep back the tears that threatened her eyes. She fixed her gaze on the door, reluctant to make a sound. The last noise had been the clink of the lock, and it replayed in her mind until the hollow metallic thud of the tumbler mechanism was burned into her memory.

Worries fretted at the corners of her mind—how had Flint figured out her secret? Was Hermione okay? Grimmauld Place compromised?—but none of them stayed long enough to occupy her thoughts.

He'd looked at her with such _contempt_. And—this wasn't how it was supposed to be—with those cruel words, that _look_, he'd lacerated her heart.

Balling the fine silk of her gown in her fists, she finally let a few tears eke across her cheeks. Every other part of her being was in utter disarray; make-up be damned. She cried quietly, twisting the shimmering fabric through her fingers, until she had thoroughly exhausted herself.

She should have stopped this when she'd fallen in love with him.

Should have stopped when he'd fallen in love with her.

Standing carefully, she unzipped the dress and slid out of the heavy fabric, letting it collapse onto the floor as she crawled onto the middle of the bed and let the fear finally knife its way into her heart.

For all that he'd loved her, Draco would now hate her. Perhaps more. And she'd seen enough to know that he would not be kind in his contempt; no, he would break her down in every way he could.

And he knew her completely, body and soul.

Lowering the lights, she settled in bed, hoping that she wouldn't have to see that gray-eyed contempt again until morning. She slid her rings off and laid them on her nightstand as she always did—then, worrying her lip for a long moment, she picked up the diamond and the band and slid them back on before she fell asleep.


	30. Acceptance

He never thought he'd have such strange in-laws.

"Ginny, oh, look at you! Darling, you're radiant! Finally showing. Look, Arthur, Ginny's showing! What is it now? Five months? Oh, lovely girl. I'm so thrilled. Look at me! Just ecstatic."

Ginny extricated herself from her mother's wild embrace and smiled ruefully at Draco. "Six months, actually."

"Oh, bless me! Only three left! Arthur, only three—"

Arthur hugged his daughter. "I believe the due date is the twenty-second of March, is it not?" he said, his eyes twinkling. "I've got to keep something straight in this house."

He reached over and clapped Draco on the back. "Merry Christmas, m'boy! And welcome."

The two elder Weasleys bustled back into the kitchen, leaving the young Malfoys alone in the Burrow's entry.

"I'm not sure I can handle this, love," Draco drawled. "The exuberance alone is stifling. Are you sure we can't go home and cozy up instead? Warm blankets, firelight, chocolate…" he trailed off wistfully.

Ginny rolled her eyes for his benefit. "C'mon. You've got to learn sometime." She grabbed his thick scarf and yanked it until he bent his head and met her eyes. "Be _good_, Draco," she threatened. "I'm preggers with_ your_ baby."

"And you'll never forget that," he muttered darkly, following her into the conflagration of brightly colored Weasley sweaters.

"Draco, you'll remember your nieces and nevvies," Molly said brightly, gesturing as the children screamed, ran, jumped, and climbed around the kitchen. "They're so excited for presents."

Ginny was drowned in affectionate, sticky hugs, but Draco cleverly sidestepped the pile of freckled knee-biters to find himself in the parlor, face to face with Ron.

"Malfoy," his brother-in-law said by way of greeting.

"Merry Christmas, Ron," replied Draco. He'd find another way to be rude later—when his wife was far away and no longer pregnant.

The children picked that particular moment to burst through the door behind him and circle the tree. Draco wobbled as the wave passed him by, and as he steadied himself on the doorway, he felt an arm slip about his waist.

"Just think, love. In a year or two, one of those will be ours."

Draco's breath caught in a moment of sheer panic. He looked down to see his wife's hand resting protectively on her belly, her eyes glowing, and he sighed.

He never thought he'd have such a strange life.

* * *

A/N: I have a soft-spot for crazy Weasley gatherings, which is probably because I have an extended family that's even bigger (and includes more children) than this one. Unlike Draco, though, my husband is a huge fan. ;)


	31. City

"I really think you're going to love Paris, Ginny. It's a lovely city," Draco drawled distractedly.

Ginny ignored him.

"There's shopping, of course. My mum always loves to shop on Rue Chachemout. But you're not too big on shopping, I guess?"

Ginny shook her head and stared out the window, watching the countryside rush past the train.

He leaned his head back against the posh seat—nothing but the best compartments for the Malfoys—and continued, "Well, if you don't want to shop, there are excellent restaurants. The food is absolutely amazing. Of course, we'll dine out—I know you love to cook, but you'll enjoy the break."

She sighed.

He frowned, worrying his forehead. "Well, there's lovely art. And sight-seeing. There are some lovely attractions. And we could probably see some of the Muggle ones, too. They have decent art. I guess."

He watched pensively as she bit her lip.

"I've reserved a lovely hotel," he said, now sulking in his seat.

She finally turned toward him. "It sounds lovely, Draco. But when I said I wanted to go on holiday, I meant I wanted to go to the _countryside_. I don't like cities. They're too crowded…and I just wanted to spend a week alone. With you."

He sighed and let his shoulders slump. "But the countryside is _boring_. Nothing to do but go on walks."

"Only thing I plan on doing is you, love," she said with a smirk and a wink.

He grinned.

"Where to, Mrs. Malfoy?"

* * *

A/N: *hides face in hands* I'm SORRY! This one just…AUGH! Pretend that never happened!

(It's _really_ hard to write drabbles when people are singing the "I Love You" song from Barney in your headphones ... just ... don't ask.)


	32. Blue

"Hush, darling. Hush and sleep," the father croons to the baby on his shoulder. The child fusses, kicking her feet against his shoulder with well-worn rage. He reaches his hand up, smoothing the silky peach-fuzz that will eventually become her beautiful red hair.

He croons a few notes, humming a song he'll never know again, but the minor notes soothe the child, who ceases her frustrated kicking and slams a small, tightly-fisted hand against him with uncontrollable ire.

Someday, he thinks, she'll discover that she has hands. Someday, she'll discover what it really means to be angry.

What it really means to cry.

"Hush, darling. Please, hush," he whispers into her delicate little ear. But she still fusses—whimpers, then gives him a half-hearted sob of pure, unfettered exhaustion.

He echoes her, sighing heavily as he sinks back into the rocking chair. The light outside is brightening from black to blue, and he's not ready to face the sun. The baby draws her fists out and kicks again, issuing a mighty yell, and he stands again.

"Alright. I'm standing," he hisses, then sighs again. "You've got a temper. Like your mum did."

He lets the past tense linger in the air for a long moment. The child quiets in his arms, relaxes on the bare skin of his chest, and he doesn't even dare to breathe. He steps to her cradle and slowly, gently lays her in it.

Her eyes open wide as she lets go, and she begins to squirm and fuss again. For a moment, he wants to break down, to sink to the floor in his pajamas. To lie down next to the mahogany crib and sleep. Sleep forever. Never have to face those eyes again.

"_I think she has your eyes. They're gray."_

"_No, they're brown. I want her to have your eyes."_

"_Baby's eyes are always blue at first."_

"_Well, I'll put my money on gray. You'll have to pay attention for me, alright, Draco?"_

"_Ginny—"_

"_Pay attention to that, and to her first word. I bet it'll be Daddy. And teach her Quidditch, even if she's all girly about it. I bet she won't be too girly. I'll bet she'll have a temper. I'll bet she—Draco?"_

"_Oh, Gin. How on earth am I going to do this without you?"_

"_You'll be an amazing father, Draco. I don't doubt that for a moment."

* * *

_

A/N: I've never cried while writing before. So that's … new. I'll blame my bizarre emotional state. I've had a rough week, and I feel rather like that baby.

This drabble brought to you by "Neverland (Piano Variation in Blue)" and "The Park (on Piano)" from the _Finding Neverland_ soundtrack.


	33. Hear No Evil

He'd changed.

He'd promised, when he'd taken her hand on that first date. When he'd slipped that ring onto her finger. When he'd proclaimed those vows at the altar.

He was _good_.

So the day when she told him about the baby, in the middle of her excited ramble about whether it would be a boy or a girl, and what to name it, and how it would be born before Christmas, she tried to ignore the blood on his sleeve.

But she couldn't. So she asked.

He told her, laughing, that Theodore Nott had taken a tumble during an informal Quidditch scrimmage. That Draco had healed the broken nose. Nott was fine. Draco was a friend.

She believed him. Nott was clumsy and Draco was good with a wand.

And when she called him, contractions three minutes apart, and he didn't answer on his Floo, she panicked and went to St. Mungo's by herself, checked into her room and breathed very carefully until he arrived, flustered.

Of course, she demanded to know where he had been.

He told her, groaning, about the business deal gone wrong. He'd been forced to leave the office to go meet with the German clients. His secretary hadn't remembered to forward Ginny's call, and he'd been so harried the entire time that he hadn't thought to check. But he'd Flooed straightaway and now he was here. They were going to be parents, and wasn't it wonderful?

She believed him. Business was a rival and the baby was coming.

And the baby came, and the days wore on, and he continued to promise, day after day, the same simple promise.

The wand had always had that crack.

Those bruises were from rough-and-tumble scrimmage Quidditch matches.

He'd always had a few drinks after dinner.

The bags under his eyes were from the sleepless nights brought on by two babies in two years.

The mark on his arm had always been that dark.

His voice had always been a little cool.

She never needed to bother to wait up.

He'd slip into bed, always showered no matter the time he returned, curl up against her spine, tucking his knees nearly into hers, and he would whisper—whisper the promise he'd made at the altar, made with with the ring, made with his hand—he would be good.

And she believed him.

But not really.

* * *

A/N: Can you die of being tired? Terribly sorry for any obvious errors in the above. I really think I'm losing my mind.


	34. Heartless

**A/N:** This is in the same world as #9, Drink, though it takes place much later. If you can't be bothered to re-read Drink, I'll catch you up in ten words – Lucius, always scheming, bought the new Minister's daughter a drink.

Also, Beethoven helped with this one. (Piano Sonata no. 14 in C-Sharp Minor – the 'Moonlight Sonata')

* * *

He lifted the wine glass from her hand, gently slipping his fingers around the stem and prying it from her tight little grasp.

"I wasn't finished with—" she tried, but he ignored her, setting it on the end table next to his nearly-full glass. The few sips of red liquid remaining in her goblet sloshed around the sides of her cup, smearing indolently against the glass and glinting in the low light.

He lifted her chin with cool fingers, and she stopped sulking and gave him a bashful look.

"What are we doing, Lucius?" she asked with a sigh.

He caught her cheek with his palm, leaning in for a slow kiss that another might have deemed 'chaste', but Lucius felt how her shoulders relaxed—and the way her thighs stiffened as he slid his palm over her knee and up just to her hem.

He pulled back and smirked as she looked on, dazedly. Of all the plans he had concocted in his lifetime, this one had some of the sweetest side-benefits.

"I think, dear Ginevra," he said, tenderly sweeping her hair behind her ear, "That we're making love."

It was bold, but he was ready for those shocked eyes and taut muscles. He ran his hand back to her knee and brought her head to his chest in a protective embrace.

He could feel her contemplate this; shifting her weight in his arms and swallowing slowly. She craned her neck to meet his eyes.

"Are you sure it's right? Sure that—sure that it's _okay_?" she asked, voice small and eyes big.

Of course it was. The very fact that she was asking ensured that, and the success was heady. He'd spent five months ensuring that it would be. Ensuring that she'd be perfectly compliant. That she would follow his instructions, heart and soul. He'd worked carefully to turn the little firecracker of a princess into a puppet of the sweetest kind, and this night would fasten those final strings.

"Of course I'm sure. I love you with all my heart," he said, slipping his hand back to her thigh, drawing the material of the dress up as he went.

If he had a heart, he mused, enjoying the deception. Though he certainly wasn't heartless. After all, he had hers.

And it was wrapped so carefully, so tightly, that all he had to do was squeeze.


	35. Light

Ginny lay on her back, letting the cool green grass tickle the backs of her ears like an unrepentant flirt as she gazed up into the purple-black sky and watched the stars squint and blink back at her, as if they were trying to figure out if she was really there or just a figment of their starry imaginations.

A cool evening breeze washed over her face, ruffling her hair and reminding the grass to tease her cheeks like a romantic knave. The stars shone ever more brightly, and even the wind hushed respectfully as they came out, brilliant and majestic in their hordes.

She sighed, listening carefully, but the only sounds were of the grass, the breeze, and the hush of the night. She was quite alone, on her back, in the middle of nowhere.

"Not like that's something knew," she whispered to the stars. "You think I'd be rather used to it by now."

They winked back at her, and one shot down, flaring out in a burst of light.

"Don't make fun," she said, glaring. "It might seem silly to you, but I really did think he'd come."

Two more shot across the sky, streaming trails of white as they fell from the heavens. Then another, a little farther away, just as bright.

She set her chin. "Well, that's alright. I'm not going to let a silly boy keep me from enjoying such a lovely night. And such lovely company," she added graciously.

The stars twinkled merrily, enjoying the compliment.

"Since when am I silly?" whispered a low voice from somewhere near her head. She flipped over to face his gray eyes, which lit up silver under the falling starlight.

"Since you're hours late," she said, trying to take on an indignant tone, but failing as she blushed.

He gave her a lazy smile and slipped his fingers between hers. "The show doesn't really start for a few hours yet," he said, lifting her cheek from the jilted grass and onto his warm shoulder. "But if you're going to lie here and talk to the stars, I'd very much like to listen."

* * *

A/N: Have you been staying up too late to watch the Perseids, too?

I thought it had been two weeks since I posted. It was five days. I have a headache.


	36. Obvious

Hermione Granger observed the way Ginny Weasley's eyes would linger on the Slytherin table at breakfast.

Pansy Parkinson was irked by the fact that Draco Malfoy no longer paid attention to her between classes.

Ron Weasley was incensed when he caught the enemy appreciating his sister's backside in the hall.

Harry Potter was puzzled, but didn't miss the admiring poetry.

Theodore Nott scowled and gave Blaise Zabini five Galleons.

Lavender Brown spent hours in the Common Room talking loudly about the cons of dating Slytherin boys.

Michael Corner sulked everywhere he went.

Vincent Crabbe was puzzled, but didn't miss the regular upbraiding.

Seamus Finnegan wondered how Lavender knew so much about Slytherin boys.

Daphne Greengrass tried to set fire to Ginny Weasley's hair in the middle of the Great Hall.

Astoria Greengrass got away with it.

Dennis Creevey developed a schoolboy appreciation for Ginny's new hair cut.

Molly Weasley sent letters laden with hinted worries.

Severus Snape noted that the Weasley girl's Potions marks were improving.

Luna Lovegood dreamed that the Nargles were more active than usual.

Lucius Malfoy sent letters laden with hinted threats.

Trelawney predicted the joining of the serpent and the lion and imminent death for all.

Parvati Patil started sharing unsolicited advice about beauty and…_well_.

Argus Flich developed a habit of wrenching open broom closets and yelling "Aha!" to the mops.

Dean Thomas glared everywhere he went.

Colin Creevey swallowed and turned the camera over to a very persuasive Draco Malfoy.

Mrs. Norris developed a habit of staying away from broom closets.

Gregory Goyle just felt lost.

And Blaise Zabini found the whole thing_ incredibly_ amusing.

* * *

A/N: I think this one is hard to read, but I liked the idea and had to see it out. What do you think?


	37. Archaic

_With this ring I thee wed._

Draco took her hand in his, and Ginny resisted the temptation to yank it away. She knew better than to antagonize him in public; she knew better in private, too, but that hadn't stopped her yet.

His face was a mask of dignified grace, but she caught the smirk in his eyes. It caused one strange set of heady, rebellious emotions to erupt from her heart, and another set of the sickening kind to settle in the pit of her stomach.

He slid a gold band onto her left ring finger, neatly placing it next to the engagement band he'd cursed her with a few months prior. She couldn't help but feel smug as she remembered the battle she'd given him over that – he'd nearly had to tie her up in order to manage to force the thing onto her, and then spell it every which way to stay.

Of course, remembering the consequences of her battle left her little to feel smug about. The sickening, sinking feeling came back.

_With my body I thee worship._

He slid his thumb over her cold hand, and a chill ran through her body. A tiny, bitter voice wondered how sacrilegious a devotee the man could be. He was the opposite of reverent, the opposite of awed. No, he was quick to remind her that she was beneath him—unless he was in the mood for her to be otherwise.

He lifted her other hand and caught her eyes once more, clearly basking in his victory. She'd seen that look before – the first night, and the first time she'd cried, and every time she begged. This time, however, he had an audience, and he was gloating.

She stuffed her temper deep inside and made a note to let him have it later. Damn his punishments.

_With all my worldly goods I thee endow._

He squeezed her hands with finality and dropped them, then swept her into his arms for a picture-perfect kiss—though the camera couldn't feel the sharp grip he had at the back of her neck, or hear the whispered, "You're _mine_," as he broke it away.

A derisive snort threatened to bubble up alongside the wave of anxiety that washed over her. Draco Malfoy might have her as his wife, but he'd _never_ have her heart.

She'd show_ him_ a honeymoon.

* * *

A/N: Whew. Came in at 397 words. I was worried about this one.

If you're wondering, these vows are where the prompt comes in – they're from the sixteenth century – and the fact that only Draco says them is rather archaic, too.


	38. Home

She wasn't really sure what "come home" was anymore.

Odd, flitting memories of a warm kitchen and smiles. Lots of people, crowded together around the fading wood of a large table, eating roast chicken and laughing about … something. She couldn't remember that part.

Then—barely-there recollections of a stone castle. A red and gold room with loads of children, talking or playing or reading. Odd. There was no kitchen or bedroom or family, but somehow "home" echoed through those rough-hewn images like the shimmering vapors at the edge of a fire.

Next—an old, decrepit house in a large city. Well-hidden—oh, and that it was black, but she couldn't remember why. There had been a table there, too, and more laughter. But also lots of fear. Not that fear kept it from being a home, or resonating with that word. Far from; fear played louder notes than laughter now.

After that: the cell. She'd landed there one day, too exhausted to remember why. The dank, stinky stones had become her walls, her roof, her bed, and her family. She'd been alone there, starved, sick, and crazy. But when they'd taken her from it, she'd missed it, and that made it a home, she vaguely recognized.

Then her home had been the rooms of her old arch-enemy, the one from school. They were vastly warmer than the cell, and lighter than the black house, but colder than the red and gold room and sadder than the large kitchen table. Here she was bathed and fed until her body was healthy again, but the boy—_man_—didn't touch her. She slept on the bed, he on the couch. Her mind considered healing, and remembered the word 'lonely'—but she couldn't bear more than that.

They'd taken her from him, ripped her away, and she'd gone to live with a new arch-enemy. He was cruel, and she would wake up with wet streaks on her face and wonder where they came from. He laughed and told her that the kitchen table and the red-gold room were gone, and he had happily watched them burn to nothing. The baby died while it was still inside of her.

Now, today, this moment, with the man—_Draco_—at her window, extending his hand, and inviting her to "come home," she wasn't really sure where she would land next.

But she took it.

* * *

A/N: It's not weird. It's _experimental_.


	39. Fun and Games

When Draco Malfoy asked if one "wanted to play a game," one needed to ask questions, not barrel on with enthusiastic acquiescence.

Ginny would have kicked herself, had her legs not been tied tightly to the bedposts.

"My, my," he murmured, standing over her with an indolent smirk gracing his mouth, "you look lovely, all at my mercy like that."

She glared at him. "I will not be patronized."

He laughed and lifted an eyebrow. "Oh yes, you will, my little lady," he crooned. "You'll be whatever I like."

When Draco Malfoy was a prat, one had a difficult time maintaining control. Yanking her arms in a futile attempt to sit up so she could glare at him properly, she spat, "You think you're all that, you git."

He merely grinned, amused, and sank down to sit beside her on the bed. He placed a hand on her stomach and she stilled long enough for him to whisper, "Because I am 'all that', love."

Reaching over her, he cinched the knots that held her arms just a little. "Wouldn't want you to undo those by mistake, now would we?"

She cut the inevitable eye roll short as he lifted his shirt over his head with both hands, pulling the fabric over his lean torso with smooth grace. When Draco Malfoy took his shirt off, one couldn't help but watch.

He noticed her captivated attention and laughed smugly. "I don't need to tie you up to have you meet my every wish, do I?"

He leaned over and brushed his lips against hers, letting his fingertip drift down her taut arms and tickle gently at her neck as he tipped her chin up to lengthen the kiss. She squirmed for a different reason, and he chuckled quietly in her ear.

"So," he said slowly, "about that game …"

She smiled. When Draco Malfoy was seducing one, it was best that one lie back and enjoy the rewards.


	40. Clothes

_Earrings._

She'd become such a beauty. He had to admit that he'd loved those freckles and that fiendish, impetuous smile for ages now, but the delicate grace that she used to lift the dangly gems from her ears was that of a woman.

_Necklace._

She lifted her hair and gave him a sidelong smile, as if cluing him into a great secret. He knew this bit of the dance, and so he stepped closer and slid his hands around the fine golden chain to the clasp, which came apart easily in his hands. Her eyes twinkled as she watched him in the mirror.

_Gloves._

Elbow-length silk was an old-fashioned necessity at these high-society cotillions, and they leant refinement beyond the every-day tempest that was his wife. She licked her lips absently as she unhooked the tiny buttons and slid the fabric away to reveal the smooth, creamy skin of her forearms. He found himself wishing he could be the glove.

_Shoes._

She kicked her heels off and settled her toes onto the floor with a relieved sigh. No matter how she spelled the fashion-forward shoes with cushioning charms, her feet inevitably ached the next day, and he knew she'd complain later. For now, she was wiggling them on the plush carpet, and he couldn't help but smile.

_Gown._

With another mirthful grin, she glanced meaningfully from him to the back of her gown, and he stepped forward dutifully and slowly drew down the zipper at the back of the jade-colored satin masterpiece. She slid the strapless bodice down slowly, then pulled first one leg, then the other, from the falling fabric. She glanced back at him with a wicked wink.

He stopped her there. He was perfectly capable of removing the rest himself.

* * *

A/N: Aha! Did you catch my allusion to Shakespeare?


	41. Servant

Ginny finished pulling the sheets taut over the fine guest-room bed, tucking them with well-practiced precision. She pulled the thick blankets up over the crisp sheets, then placed all twelve pillows with care.

"You're rather adept at that chore, haven't you?"

She turned toward him with lowered eyes. "I do my best, sir," she said quietly, noticing the red-brown mud on his normally pristine dragon-hide boots. Lucius Malfoy kept his person pristine; the mud came from riding or raiding, and judging from the lazy drawl in his voice, he'd been riding.

He crossed the room and ran a hand over the smooth coverlet. She turned to face him, but kept her eyes away from his.

"I've always appreciated the feeling of fine fabrics. Don't you enjoy them?"

She swallowed. Lucius had the habit of making her feel like a caged bird. She chose a slight nod.

He took her hand and ran it over the smooth silk. "Touch them properly," he ordered quietly, sitting on the edge of the bed. His eyes glittered with sharp menace.

She murmured a quiet, "It's very nice," as her mind fought to find a way out of this predicament. This would not end well if she wasn't on her toes.

He pulled her hand so that she sat beside him on the edge of the bed. "The silk is complimented by the softness of the bed, isn't it?" he inquired, gently pushing her back so that she lay down on top of the cool spread.

Her heart beat wildly, as though it was the flighty bird, and her ribs the cage. He leaned over her, and she smelled the tang of ash and blood. He hadn't been riding.

"Ginevra. There you are," said a sharp voice from the doorway. "Do excuse me, Father, but I need my servant—the state of my wardrobe is deplorable. I have a Ministry function to attend and can't find a single tie."

Ginny caught her breath as Lucius straightened. "Of course, Draco. She's all yours," he drawled.

She sat up and practically ran to Draco, who grabbed her elbow and yanked her through the door and down the hall, pulling her into his room. He shut the door with a thud, then scooped up his tie from the back of an armchair, shaking his head.

"You're welcome," he said quietly, coolly looping the smooth silk around his neck.

* * *

A/N: Whew! That was close.

Exactly 400. :)


	42. Roots

"Alex," Ginny laughed, watching the toddler yank on the stem of a turnip, "darling, you're going to—"

The child fell over with a thump, greens in his grubby hands. He sat up and looked over at her expectantly.

She ruffled his hair. "You won't find anything to eat there, little man," she laughed. She grabbed a carrot and pulled it carefully. "See? You've got to get the root out."

He sighed. "I's hungry."

"What? But you just ate breakfast," she exclaimed.

He shook his head mournfully. "But my tummy is being loud."

Sighing, Ginny dusted the dirt from her hands. She scooped the small boy up and settled him on her hip. Once in the little cottage's kitchen, she settled Alex on his chair.

"Bread and butter?"

She shook her head and reached for the bread just as a knock came from the front door.

"Don't move," she ordered. "I'll be back in a moment."

She crossed through the house, opened the front door—and promptly shut it.

"Nooooo," she hissed as the knock came again. Chagrined, she swung it open.

"So this is the hovel in which you live? Charming," said her guest, stepping into the room with a sneer.

"Draco, how did you—I wasn't expecting—"

"How did I find you?" he interrupted. "This place is actually crumbling around your ears," he commented. "Must have been quite the adjustment after spending those years in comfort."

"It was a welcome adjustment," she snapped. "This is more of a home than your cold mansion will ever be."

He lifted an eyebrow with derision. "Whatever. I've spent nearly _years_ hunting you down, and I have two options for you. Either sign this writ of divorce—"

"Mummy, my tummy is _rumbling_!"

Draco froze. "_Mummy_?" he exhaled, turning toward her a look of pure ice.

"I'll sign the papers," she said hurriedly, reaching for them. He snatched them away and took the two steps to the kitchen door.

"Hello, man," she heard from the next room. "I's hungry."

She swallowed and ran into the kitchen. "Draco, I—"

But Draco had her son in his arms. "How _could_ you, Gin?" he whispered, holding the platinum blond boy protectively.

He looked up coolly, as if challenging her to take the child from him. "Never mind. I'm taking divorce off the table. My _son_—and my _wife_—need to know their roots."

* * *

A/N: Um, this one was supposed to be a happy one. I dunno what happened.

Another that comes in at exactly 400. I'm feeling wordy today…


	43. Too Easy

"Don't I know you? You think I'd remember that shade of red."

"Very cute, _Malfoy_."

"Is this seat taken?"

"Yes."

"By whom?"

"Your mum."

"Oh, _witty_, Weasley."

"I try—and you_ do _know who I am!"

"Your mum tries, but it's such a pathetic thing to watch that I always take over for her."

"Ugh. Are you always this charming?"

"Only when I'm in a good mood."

"I'd hate to see you in a bad one."

"Then keep me happy."

"Keep yourself happy. So are you buying me a drink?"

"Beg your pardon?"

"If you sit down next to a girl at a bar and strike up a conversation, you have to buy her a drink."

"I don't buy girls drinks unless I intend to shag them."

"You're a misogynistic man-whore."

"Mmm, wrong there. I enjoy women very much, and I've never in my life been compensated for doing so."

"Never compensated for enjoying women? But the men pay well."

"Afraid I wouldn't know. Your accusation of man-whore is completely baseless."

"Mm, sorry, I didn't hear what you were saying—too busy picturing you and all those men."

"Whatever turns you on, Weasley."

"Actually, I was imagining you and that old barkeep, which was sick making, and after that mental image, I fear I'll never be turned on again."

"Then I suppose it would be pointless to buy you a drink."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Sir? Another drink for the lady."

"_You _can't buy _me_ a drink!"

"Why not? You told me that it's the rules."

"Yes, but then you told me that you only buy drinks for women you intend to _shag_."

"_Girls _I intend to shag."

"Misogynistic pig—"

"We've been through this. Drink up, love."

"Oooooh. You're impossible."

"No. I'm very accessible."

"Well I—I—"

"Yes?"

"I'm not accessible at all."

"I dare you to test that theory."

"Oh? You're on."

"I win, I get to shag you senseless."

"I win, you—you have to admit to the entire street that you're a misogynistic man-whore."

"Fair enough. So, you say you're not accessible—I'm going to kiss you now, and you're on your honor to tell me that your little heart is iron clad."

…

"Nothing. Not even a butterfly."

"Oh? And if I do this—"

…

"Afraid not."

"Hmm—what about here, at your neck?"

…

"Malfoy?"

"Mm?"

"Your place or mine?"

"Definitely mine."

* * *

A/N: I was going to go back and put in tags and action, but I ran out of words (this is at 398) and then I decided you all could handle another dialog-only piece.

And if you're confused as to how this fits in with the prompt, you don't know Draco like I do. :P


	44. Insane

"Ginny, we've called you in because—well." Remus said in a hushed voice. "We have a rather complicated plan to infiltrate the inner circle of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, and you have … qualities that make you the only candidate for a specific role. Your parents agree, but the final choice to become involved must be yours. Is that clear?"

Ginny looped her hair behind her ears and nodded. Nerves fluttered behind her belly-button; she'd just finished Hogwarts weeks ago, and she'd heard rumors of this plan, but knew little else.

"You all know your places?" Remus asked, and the assembled members of the Order of the Phoenix nodded gravely.

"Good. Now, you should know that Draco has established himself as a double agent."

"I'm not in the inner circle of the Death Eaters, but I'm rather close." Ginny looked up in shock. The blond stood away from the table, leaning against the wall lazily. "Within the next year."

Remus grimaced. "Hopefully we'll be done before the year is up."

"You never can tell with these things," Draco drawled with a smirk in Ginny's direction.

"You see, Draco can't get away to provide information without looking suspicious. We need to plant another—someone who won't be under such intense scrutiny. This person will relay information back to the rest of the Order."

"Polyjuice?" Ginny asked. "With a Muggle hair?"

Her father shook his head. "No. They'll check backgrounds, and we don't have time to make one. It'll have to look like a turn-coat.

"So you want me to pose as a Death Eater candidate?" Ginny asked slowly.

Draco smirked. "Not a candidate. You'd be made the instant they called on you to Cruciatus a Muggle. Or a fly."

"No, Ginny—we don't need another Death Eater. Just someone close to Draco." Remus said gravely.

She frowned. "So, I'm to be … a friend? Or a co-worker?"

Draco chucked and pushed himself off the wall, then draped an arm over her shoulder. "I'm a Malfoy. I don't have co-workers, and I have exactly one friend. What I don't have," he said dramatically, "is a wife."

Ginny pushed his arm away and whirled on him. "What? No. You are all INSANE. I'm not marrying Draco!"

He smirked and slung his arm around her waist. "Pity. They told me you were brave."

"I am brave!" she retorted.

He grinned smugly. "Then prove it. Marry me, darling."

* * *

A/N: Tee hee.


	45. Clouds

"Don't you ever wish you could fly as high as those clouds, Daddy?"

Draco looked up at the crisp autumn sky. The rich blue was dotted with fluffy, perfect white clouds. The sunlight caught them magnificently, then filtered down through the translucent maple leaves, casting both of them in a rich orange-gold glow.

"Oh, but I have flown that high, Julia" he told her. "A long, long time ago."

She grasped his hand tightly as they continued down the garden path. He marveled for a moment over how quickly she'd grown from a squalling infant into this little—well—little person, with a temperament and conscience and thoughts that were all her own.

She paused and pointed up at the sky. "That one looks like a squirrel, don't you think? See, the tail comes up just there." She craned her neck to see if he followed her gaze, and her lovely red curls tumbled over her shoulder.

"I see it," he said wistfully. "It's a very nice squirrel."

"If I could fly high enough, I'd bring it some nuts," she said with a laugh. "Acorns made of cloud fluff."

He smiled and swung her up into his arms. "You're nearly too big for this, you know. You're getting to be an old lady" he said, tickling her.

"Daddy! I'm only six," she squealed.

He set her down and looked at her seriously. "Five, but very nearly six. And you know what that means?" he said, grabbing her hand and pulling her around the corner of the path?

"What?" she asked, wide-eyed.

"It means it's high time you learned to fly," he whispered, leading her out onto quarter-scale Quidditch pitch he'd had installed at the far corner of the garden.

Julia's jaw dropped as she half ran, half hopped to the center of the pitch to grasp the child-sized Firebolt Jr. "Oh, Daddy," she said softly, running her hands along the smooth wood. "For me?"

"Yes, for you," he said with a quiet chuckle, then glanced up at the high white clouds. "And for you, my darling," he whispered to the sky.

* * *

A/N: If you didn't guess, this drabble takes place roughly five years after **Blue**.


	46. Challenge

"Mister Malfoy, sir, your father has asked that you oversee that the Dark Lord's new prisoners are, ah, comfortably settled."

Draco dropped his paper and rolled his eyes at the nameless brute. "I'm sure he has," he said, scowling. "Where are they?"

"Tied up by the front door," grunted the beefy Death Eater underling.

Crabbe or Goyle would have been preferable to this beast, Draco decided as he lifted his heels off his desk and stood, glaring with copious menace. "You left a lot of new prisoners 'tied up by the door,' did you?" he said icily.

The man fidgeted. "Trump's there, to guard 'em, sir."

Draco shook his head in disgust. "Incompetent fool," he muttered loudly enough for the man to hear. "They're Muggles, then?"

"No, sir. It's a mixed lot."

"Damn it all, you left wizards 'tied-up' with Trump?" Draco hissed, rounding on the man, who quailed and clutched his hat.

Without waiting for the fool to answer, Draco made his way down the hall and the flight of stairs that led into the grand foyer, and then to the front door. He flung it open and was greeted by a group of stupid-looking Muggles huddling in the corner of the entry, and a rather ferocious red-haired witch with her foot on Trump's stomach and a wand leveled at his throat.

"Salazar's balls," Draco groaned. The witch looked up and swung the wand in his direction, and he caught the flash of recognition in her eyes as he muttered a quick Expelliarmus and caught the wand in his outstretched palm.

"You lot," he barked at the Muggles, "Get inside or I'll have these nice men dismember you."

They obeyed. But the Weasley—she was definitely a Weasley with that hair—merely stomped on Trump's chest. He groaned loudly, and she smirked. Trump was an _idiot_, he decided.

"Will you come in, or do I need to hex you first?" Draco drawled lazily, poking his wand into her neck.

She responded by planting her hands on her hips and grinding her heel into Trump's ribcage as if having her life threatened was a daily occurrence. The audacious brat met his eyes, lifted her eyebrows with utter disdain, and _spat _in his_ face._

"You dare to challenge me, Weasley?" he snarled, wiping his cheek with the sleeve of his cloak.

She lifted her chin defiantly. "Do your worst, _Malfoy_."

* * *

A/N: It's really hard to write this many in one day and make them unique. I'm sorry if they're crap. Gah! *hides face in hands*


	47. Sight

He'd been embattled for days, and he saw nothing but ill-intentioned green light headed his direction at all hours. The second they'd discovered his true loyalty, everyone who had once proclaimed friendship had sent killing curses his way, and he'd holed up in everything from cottages to caves in his futile attempts to leave the country. Exhausted, beaten, and wounded, he soldiered on.

When they'd finally found him, it had been torture, and he saw nothing but the leering faces and his own red blood for days. Sometimes the pain was a ruse, or a weak attempt to get information about his allies. Locations, names, dates were tossed in front of him and laughed over—his Aunt was cruel with a wand and a blade—but he was silent. Silent and ready for death, whenever it should come.

But rescue came instead, in the form of an old enemy, and he saw Potter's bird's nest of a hair cut. He'd never been so relieved in his entire life to see the Boy-Who-Annoyed. The two had fled in the middle of the night, dodging more jets of green as they ran, then flew, away from the darkness and out of danger.

Then he was forced to go into hiding at a lonely safe house, and he saw nothing but the same four walls for weeks. He nearly went made, pacing the cottage and checking the fire every five minutes for a Floo message. He caught himself staring out windows for hours, wishing that every speck in the sky was a rider on a broomstick—or at least an owl.

So when Ginny whirled out of his fireplace, his first instinct was to collapse on the couch and sink his head into his hands, then leap up and grab her tightly, and finally, to kiss her soundly on the mouth.

Because after all the green light, the red blood, the black hair, and the blank walls—

"Oh, love. You have no idea—you're a sight for sore eyes."

* * *

A/N: *siiiigh*


	48. Flowers

Rosebuds arrived after the first date, with a little card that read, _"Next time, you either let me pay the whole bill, or I get a kiss."_

Jonquils followed the second date. _"Lovely evening. Next time, no choice—I'm paying. But I'll still take that kiss."_

Anemones were delivered at work after the first sleep-over, and the note said, _"Love you, too."_

White carnations arrived the morning of her interview at the Minstry, and nasturtiums showed up in her kitchen the morning after their celebratory dinner.

Mistletoe appeared mysteriously at Christmas—and he had the odd habit of standing as near the doorway as possible.

Yellow lilies appeared in her living room on the one-year anniversary of the first dinner. _"I paid _and_ those kisses were wonderful. I think I win."_

Red roses accompanied the ridiculously huge (and absolutely lovely) heirloom diamond ring.

White roses filled the house—and her arms—when she walked down the garden path at his manor to say 'I do.'

Peonies graced the garden in the honeymoon villa.

Blue hydrangeas met her at the bedroom door after a month of married life. _"I'm an idiot. And we need to buy a more comfortable couch."_

Calla lilies surprised her on their first anniversary.

Forsythia for the second anniversary. _"I love you. There's something sparkly wrapped around the stems—wear it tonight."_

Daffodils were delivered to her new office_—"Congratulations on the promotion, darling. Knock them out of the park."_

Pink roses after dinner and random fits of laughter—_"I cannot believe we're going to be parents."_

A bouquet of fresh lavender perfumed the delivery room.

Orchids filled the dining room on their eldest child's first send-off dinner before the school term began.

Purple hyacinths graced her bedside the day after their forgotten anniversary, and he showed her exactly how sorry he was under the covers.

Orange blossoms rested next to her breakfast plate the day their youngest graduated from Hogwarts.

Forget-me-nots rested in her wrinkled hands on the way home from the retirement party.

…and a single red rose lay on her grave.

* * *

A/N: Holy moley, that was a lot of work. If you look them up, alllll those flowers have a meaning that ties in with the moment. Had no idea what I was getting into there…


	49. More

"I feel like we don't talk anymore," Ginny complained.

Draco cocked an eyebrow at her. "And I feel like we don't shag anymore. Your point?"

She crossed her arms. "My point is that this isn't working. I either want more from you, or I want to move out. Can't very well have a partner who doesn't give me the time of day, can I?"

"No, I don't suppose you can," he replied, leaning back on couch with his hands behind his head. "You know where the door is."

Her mouth fell open. "Draco Malfoy! We've been together for four years, overcome dozens of odds and some hefty prejudices, and you're going to show me the door?"

He sighed and sat up, leaning his elbows on his thighs. "I don't need to show you. You know where it is."

Ginny sat down on the closest surface—the coffee table—and put her head in her hands.

"Oh, Gin. Don't cry."

"Don't cry!" she shrieked. "My boyfriend is telling me to move out and I'm not allowed to cry?"

He exhaled wearily. "I didn't mean that. I was angry."

"So—so you don't want me to leave?" she said, blinking back the sudden tears.

"No, I love you. Gin, I—I do want more. I want to know what's going on in your head, and in your heart, and I really would have you around for a good long time. And a shag here and there would be very nice."

She sniffled. "I suppose I could make that work. If you really mean it, that is."

He took her hands in his and gave her a small smile. "I'll prove I mean it, then," he said, and slipped off the couch and onto one knee. "Ginevra Molly Weasley, will you marry me?"

* * *

A/N: There. That one worked out to be nice and fluffy! See, I'm not a depraved psychopath bent on making the characters' lives hell. ;)


	50. Love

She kissed him and turned to face the clear blue-black night sky with a sigh of happiness.

"Draco," she whispered in a wheedling, questioning tone, "Do you love me?"

"Of course I do," he murmured, playing with the long locks of red hair that gleamed in the light on the veranda. She was a puzzle, full of new surprises. "Is this some sort of test?"

She downed her drink. "No. It's nice to be reminded. This holiday proves your love—you needed to get away from the city, and _I_ needed you all to myself, away from home. To be reinvigorated. And … re-happied."

He smirked. "Making you happy is too easy, my love. You've yet to demand more clothes, or flowers, or jewelry, or chocolates—"

"I've demanded chocolates."

"—but never for love."

"Remember the sugar quills? They will absolutely mend a broken heart."

He laughed, and pulled her over to sit on his lap, admiring the way the stars' twinkles were mirrored in her eyes. "And they'll assuage your anger. Now that's a challenge."

She giggled drunkenly and swatted his shoulder. "You heartless git. Feel the pain of my contempt. No, my wrath!" she proclaimed, dissolving into breathless laughter.

He pulled her close. "I see no evil, hear no evil, my wrathful girl."

She sat upright, breathless. "If you won't accept my challenge I shall seek peace. Obviously," she said with mock seriousness. "Crying over spilled milk just plants roots for divorce."

"What?"

"I don't know-it's an old family saying. I'm drunk and there are no clouds in sight!" she cried. "We should go flying."

Draco chuckled. "Maybe in bed, while you dream, you insane woman. Flying while drunk isn't fun and games."

Ginny cocked her head. "Drowning would be a worse way to die. Lungs compressed by water—"

"Quite enough of that. Talk about discrepant topics—hopeful to morbid in a heartbeat," he said, slipping a hand over her mouth. She pushed it away.

"There are better ways to shut me up, you archaic ponce," she said, kissing him impetuously. "I feel as light as a balloon. Or a breeze!"

He shook his head and carried her through the doorway. "My drink!" she cried.

"A servant will take care of it," he murmured, and she dropped her head in unspoken, drunken acceptance.

"Draco, do you love me still?"

"I'll love you forever."

* * *

A/N: Okay, this one is _really_ weird, but DO YOU SEE WHAT I DID? *cackles madly*

I've written ad nauseum today, I think—thirteen drabbles. I might need therapy tomorrow. (I know, after reading the above, you're thinking "Yes, Leigh. Therapy would be niiiice.") But I reached my goal! *dances wildly* Halfway there, baby!


	51. Anent

"Ahem. Ladies and Gentlemen of the Civil Council, it has come to our attention that a large asset anent the late Mr. Malfoy's estate was not bequeathed in his will. I submit to this esteemed body that this portion of his wealth be passed to his widow."

The Civil Council of the Wizengamot rustled as the squat lawyer stood before them expectantly.

The Chair, a wizard of advanced years, leaned forward. "Do you mean to tell me, Mervin, that Lord Malfoy left an incomplete will?"

The lawyer nodded. "His executors, the Messrs. Brigs, noticed the matter."

A tall woman to Lord Tavish's right pursed her lips. "And the widow?"

"Mrs. Malfoy is grieving and has placed responsibility for the settlement on my hands," said Mervin with a half bow.

"Exactly _what_ has been so grossly overlooked?" she asked.

He cleared his throat. "Majority stock in Malfoy Enterprises, madam."

Gasps echoed through the chamber as the twenty-odd council members comprehended this information.

"And you think control of the business should go to Mrs. Malfoy?" Tavish inquired.

"Mrs. Malfoy has been actively involved in the company for several years, and we think it best that—"

"—actively involved bent over my father's desk, you mean," drawled a voice from the far corner. Mervin went white as the speaker stood and stepped onto the floor.

"I contend Mr. Mervin's suggestion. The majority of the estate is entailed to assure the succession, and I think it fitting that the company be included."

Tavish frowned. "So you want the shares along with the entire estate, young Lord Malfoy? Leaving your stepmother nothing?"

Draco gave Mervin a disdainful glance. "I think it only fitting, sir. My 'stepmother' is just a very pretty secretary."

Tavish frowned. "Is that so? Then I'm sure her skills will come in handy to you." He banged his gavel. "It pleases the Council to divide primary control of Malfoy Enterprises between the two contenders—Draco Lucius Malfoy, son of the deceased, and Ginevra Molly Weasley, wife of the deceased. That is our will, and it is final."

Mervin grinned foolishly and watched Draco sweep out of the room. The battles between Ginevra and Draco were well-documented in the tabloids.

But perhaps they'd find a balance and it'd be a partnership made in heaven ... or the thing would burn by Christmas.

Yes. He'd Floo his broker _before_ he told Ginny the news.

* * *

A/N: I know nothing about inheritance law. Or corporate law. Or British law. So I'm claiming creative license and voting that, in the wizarding world, this is how it's done. u_u

I've been toying with the idea of an L/G D/G in which Draco and Ginny despise each other, because while Draco think Gin's a gold digger, she really does have a relationship with Lucius. None of this becomes clear until after Lucius dies and the two are forced to deal with these issues (e.g. the above), which eventually leads to ... well, I haven't gotten that far yet. I know ... I have a sick love of triangles ...


	52. Corner

She shrinks back into the corner of the dingy cell, avoiding his eyes as her fingers press against the crumbling plaster. The walls dust her hands with a fine, chalky layer of powder as she runs them nervously against the smooth surface, pressing the base of her spine against her wrists.

He sneers. "Cowardly wench."

The words rise like bile in her throat as the disdain in his eyes sinks into hers. "I'm not cowardly," she says quietly.

"Oh? Then why avoid me? Why not face me and take what's coming to you?" he taunted deliberately.

She dusts her hands off on her ragged jumper and takes a step out of the corner. He smirks, folding his arms arrogantly, and she stills.

"Something the matter, mighty brave one?" he drawls, taking two steps toward her. Without thinking—without knowing—she is back against the plaster. A bit of the wall crumbles into her stringy red hair, dusting it with flakes of white.

He rolls his eyes. "You've been sentenced, witch. Do you want me to make this any worse than it needs to be?"

A small bubble not unlike a sob threatens to well up in her chest, and her knees give way as she sinks partway down; knees bent, back pressed flush against the crumbling wall, and he sighs resignedly.

"Weasley, I have to take you to my father _now_. The longer this takes, the less pleasant that part will be for either of us." He bends down and grabs her shoulders, pulling her to stand.

He tugs her out of the corner and holds both her wrists tightly. "I can do this gently if you let me," he says quietly, drawing out his wand to bind her hands as he speaks. "But keep up this idiotic cowardice and you won't survive the night."

She swallows. "You mean—they're not going to—"

He won't meet her eyes. "You might rather they did"

He finishes the knots and finally meets her pleading face. "But I'll put in a good word for you, after." He slips his hand around her bound ones and leads her from the room. "Just in case," he whispers.

* * *

A/N: This is a case of "Leigh just started writing and had no idea where she'd end up." The result is ... not terrible. I think.


	53. Guilt

She felt so dirty.

Never while she was with him, of course. When they were together, she didn't think about the dirty part. There were too many other things in her heart then. Primal, _raw_ things. Things that needed to be sated or she'd go stark mad.

Things that she'd never done before. Things that had _never even crossed her mind_ before.

But when he did them – when he told her to do them, it made such perfect sense. And it felt so, so good.

But after … after, when the inevitable snake-like beast would settled somewhere between her ribs and her belly button, and she'd cringe as the memories flashed before her eyes like moving photographs. Remembering the smell of his skin – which had been so heady earlier – made her stomach turn.

She'd lock the door to her flat and go sit in the bath, letting the water fill the tub and run right out, over and over, as she cried. The tears splashed into the warm bathwater – tears of grief, frustration, anger, and sheer confusion – late into the night.

There was the denial, too. She was smile-faced-Ginny the next morning, cheerfully arriving at work, happily having coffee with Hermione, and telling Mum that everything was dandy.

Then he'd Floo after dinner, and the beast in her stomach would instantly melt into another, more violent creature at the sound of his voice. _This_ beast wanted to _un_curl, to ooze into her fingertips and toes, and explode.

And only he could make that happen.

She felt _so_ dirty.

* * *

A/N: This is another instance in which I am completely decided that the man involved is Lucius, but I'll be nice to my D/G readers and let you decide it was Draco, if you like. ;)


	54. Prisoner

"Hands where I can see them, Weasley."

Ginny swallowed and lifted her hands. Her wand lay a mere stone's throw away, but Malfoy had his pointed squarely at her neck, and there was no way she could physically dodge a curse at this range.

Keeping his wand carefully trained on her person, he stepped closer warily. "Hand over your wand," he ordered.

"If I had my wand, do you think I'd surrender so easily? You really are an arrogant bastard," she cried.

The response was an unwelcome smirk. "Accio wand," he said, holding her gaze as he unblinkingly summoned – and pocketed – her salvation. "I might be an arrogant bastard, but I seem to have captured a little Weasley, and that's going to make quite the impression on my father."

She glared. "Your father? I thought you Death Eaters fought for He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Or are you just a daddy's boy pretending to be a big, evil Death Eater?" she said mockingly.

He was on her in an instant. He grabbed her chin and roughly jerked her chin upward, tipping her face up toward his. "I serve whomever I choose to serve, wench. My loyalty is to the House of Malfoy, and the Malfoys are loyal to the Dark Lord – a fact which ought to frighten you, given your predicament," he hissed malevolently.

She yanked her head away. "You're nothing but a stupid boy, playing games," she spat.

He made to grab her again, but this time she pushed back, barreling into his chest with all her might. The two tumbled over, Malfoy on his back, and Ginny landed on top of him as hard as she possibly could. With any luck, he'd get the wind knocked out of him in more ways than one.

She scrambled to pull his wand from his fingers before he could catch his breath, and she scrambled to stand up, aiming the thin stick of hawthorn at his nose as he began to sit up.

"Hands where I can see them, _Malfoy_.

* * *

A/N: So did she show him or WHAT? Wooo, girl power!

(I'm really far too tired to be doing these.)


	55. Craft

Ginny bent her head over the steamy cauldron, pulling a loose strand of damp hair out of her face to tuck it behind her ear. The damp lock clung to her forehead as she peered down into the bubbling brew, curiously watching the purple liquid ooze and pop.

She looked up curiously. "Why isn't it thickening?" she asked. "I added the minced orange peel just after the lacewings."

Her tutor lifted an eyebrow. "Are you sure you minced them and didn't chop them? Potioncraft requires that one attend very carefully to such details."

"I don't know, Malfoy. You're the one who watched me do it," she accused, giving the potion another swirl with her long-handled wooden spoon.

Frowning, Malfoy shrugged off his school robe and started to roll up his shirt sleeves. "Did you add the carrion entrails just before the lacewings?" he inquired, cuffing his shirt just below the elbows. "And have you been watching the temperature?"

He bent down to check the fire, and when he lifted his head, his normally pale skin was glowing pink from the warmth. Ginny swallowed and kept stirring. The potion looked slightly thicker. Maybe.

He reached across the boiling surface and took the handle of the spoon, slipping his fingers over hers. "It might help if you stirred it correctly, you know," he drawled. With his hand firmly wrapped around hers, he proceeded to guide the spoon in a wide figure-eight pattern.

The steam from the cauldron continued to billow around them, and she realized with a blush that the well-made Oxford was not immune to being a bit, ah, clingy. She was hoping that the faint tingles in her hand were from the effects of the magic, and not related to fact that Draco Malfoy was holding her hand in a hot and steamy room – and looking damn good doing it.

And just like that, the potion began to thicken.

* * *

A/N: And that, ladies and gents, is how Leigh does hot 'n steamy.

Just kidding...sorta.


	56. Misfortune

She stands silhouetted in the window halfway down the grand manor stairs, transfixed by something beyond the polished glass, and I wonder once more if she feels…caged. Fading sunlight streams through her hair, transfiguring the red into a burnished gold, and the golden-pink light filters through the delicate tulle of her gown, lithe and vibrant in the sober hall. But on her shoulders, which are bare and pale, the sunlight wears thin, and slumps.

I run my hands over the smooth bar, allowing them to slip out of my shaded hiding place and over the fine grain of the polished wood. Others mill about in the spacious hall, sampling hors d'oeuvre and noting the weather. It's easy to pick up the light tinkle of champagne flutes among the muted laughter of small talk, and only slightly more difficult to sense the pretension and wealth wafting through the air.

I watch as she remains above, unwavering, on the landing, as if she is in a land of her own making, aloof to this superciliousness. The twilight is less violent now that the sun has set, and the colors fade to deep blues. I notice that a flute of champagne rests on the windowsill near her gloved hand, untouched.

Her father finds her there, and his whispered words are met with anger. She snaps her head away from the window and inclines it sharply toward the party assembled in the hall, and she isn't cautious when she snatches up her drink. The sparkling beverage sloshes and threatens to mar her gown, but she doesn't give a damn. She merely glares at her father, downs the champagne with one elegant tip of her chin, and gracefully descends the stairs.

She pauses at the foot to hand me her empty glass.

"Sometimes, you know, I wish your side won," she whispers.

I stack her flute alongside the other dirty ones behind the bar.

"I never have," I murmur.

* * *

A/N: I blame the tune Vintage, by Break of Reality. (Indie group – three cellists and a drummer, and totally worth the listen – expect to see them listed here again).


	57. Plot

Ginny flung the sharp-edged hoe over her shoulder and then down with crashing might into the hard, rocky soil. Planting a garden really was back breaking work when one was trying to use as little magic as possible.

Wrenching the earth up from its grass-bound, dry state wasn't the hardest thing she'd accomplished that week, either. She'd managed to repair broken kitchen cabinets on Tuesday, upon discovering the shelving was rotted through, and just yesterday she had rigged up something resembling a shower in the antiquated bathtub; as charming as the claw footed bath was, sometimes nothing could replace a warm shower.

She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand and gave the ground another mighty blow. She'd grimly decided that spend every ounce of energy on taming this little plot of land before she'd think about giving up.

So she worked tirelessly until she heard the telltale wail from just inside the small cottage. Brushing her hands on her denims as she walked into the small, ramshackle house, she sighed. She'd never be done here – certainly not with a growing baby to care for on top of the day-to-day duties and her large "projects" to make the place livable.

Alex sat in his crib, halfheartedly crying for her. "Hey, little man," she said quietly, pushing open the door to the bedroom they shared. "How was your slumber?"

He gave her a little sniffle and a timid smile, then lifted his arms. "Up," he demanded, and she obeyed willingly, lifting him out of his bed with a small groan – garden work and lifting babies made for tired arms.

Ginny tucked the boy's fair head into the crook of her neck and held him close, trying not to think about the garden, or the shower, or the stove, or the past—or the father—or the future. She tried to savor the way he cuddled right into her shoulder, and the way his platinum blond hair smelled so baby-sweet, and the way he sighed contentedly in her arms.

She tried to remember that she was building a _home_, and this was the most important part of that.

* * *

A/N: Yes, this is about a year before 42. Roots. Maybe a little more than a year. I'm not really sure. But lots of people liked that universe, so when "Plot" made me think of a garden, I went with it.

*shrugs* I'm starting to like it too.


	58. Pen to Paper

A plastic, ballpoint pen lay on the table.

Draco watched it with the beginning of a snarl on his lips. The cheapness of the little instrument was insulting, really. It was a tool designed to be used up and thrown away, the cheap whore of writing utensils. He couldn't bring himself to touch it.

He longed for the days of rich, eagle feather quills. Those luxurious pens made writing an act of refinement and dignity. Words were chosen thoughtfully and written in elegant penmanship when one used an expensive quill.

The plastic pen was for nothing but scratched little notes and doodles, things that would certainly pass away with time. He curled his nose up at the offending ballpoint and turned haughtily, determined to make the object _feel_ his disdain.

"Ahem."

Draco swiveled to look at the lawyer, a squat little man named Mervin or some such nonsense. He had an annoying mustache and was so plebeian that it hurt to look at his little tweed waistcoat.

Scowling for emphasis, Draco grasped the white plastic of the pen between his thumb and forefinger and gingerly lifted it to the paper. Frowning intensely, he scrawled his name on the dotted line, forgoing the usual distinguished flourishes that the surname usually inspired.

"Very good, Mr. Malfoy," Mervin piped up. "I'm sure that you and Mrs. Malfoy will lead Malfoy Enterprises on to new and greater things."

Draco could only manage to throw the pen down and glared at the attorney, who merely pocketed the thing and smiled brightly.

He could only hope that agreements written in the ink of a ballpoint met a similar fate as the disposable pen.

* * *

A/N: I loathe ballpoint pens. For the record. u_u


	59. Stars

"I rather like Lyra," Ginny said, rubbing her very-pregnant stomach with a sigh. "She'll be here any day now, and it's about time we settled on a name."

Draco draped an arm over the back of the pretty wooden bench that his mother had placed so artfully under the sweeping branches of a weeping willow – a space that Ginny had delighted in since she'd moved into the manor.

"Lyra's nice. But what if it's a boy?" he asked, frowning. "If it's a boy, I think Scorpius is a fine name."

Ginny burst out laughing. "Scorpius? Oh, Draco, you can't be serious. I mean—_Scorpius?_ Really?" She paused when she saw his face. "Oh. You are serious," she said, failing to stifle one last giggle.

He rolled his eyes. "Do you have any better ideas?"

"For a boy? Ugh, no. I looked through all the astronomy books your mother gave me—all of the really good ones have been used up, and I hate the idea of naming our baby after one of the awful Blacks."

She frowned and curled her bare toes in the grass. Her propensity to go without shoes was puzzling to Draco, but he'd learned that some things were better left unquestioned. She sighed and leaned into him, and he shifted so that she could curl her head onto his shoulder.

"I suppose we better hope it's a girl," he said thoughtfully.

She sat up and beamed at him. "Really? You want it to be a girl?"

He brushed her hair behind her ears. "I'd love a daughter. A beautiful girl, just like you."

Ginny snorted. "Well, I hope she's like you, too. Otherwise, I shall be very disappointed to have gone to all the trouble of marrying you for nothing."

Draco chuckled. "So we'll settle on Lyra for a girl? And just in case it's a boy—something other than Scorpius?"

"You know what? To hell with this crazy Black constellation-naming thing. If it's a girl we'll make your mum happy and call her Lyra, and if it's a boy we'll name him whatever we want. Stars be damned," Ginny said vehemently, then burst into peals of laughter. "Drakey Jr. has a nice ring."

"I think_ not_, Witch," Draco murmured, pulling her close. "But I've always been partial to Cassius."

"Mmm, I could live with that," Ginny whispered, closing the distance with a very lovely kiss.

* * *

A/N: Whoa – 400 exactly when I checked the word count. I'm getting pretty good at this 400 thing … we'll hope it doesn't hamper my ability to go back to writing actual, long chapters when we return to Fanfiction As We Know It next month. ;)

And sorry for any mistakes – it's been a long week, and I'm too tired to attend properly to commas.


	60. Judging

Draco stepped out of the shower and wrapped a towel around his waist, content to let the extra water drip from the ends of his hair and the tips of his fingers and onto the tile floor. Swiping his wet hair out of his eyes and over his head with a lazy motion, he sauntered to his closet.

He easily found the trousers he wanted—faded denims from a designer he liked—but a shirt wasn't immediately obvious. He tossed the jeans onto the chaise in the corner of the closet, and turned to face the racks of neatly pressed shirts.

He tousled his wet hair with one hand and stared at the perfectly spaced garments in front of him. There were dress shirts, neatly pressed, in all the necessary colors. Perhaps a gray Oxford, untucked? Of course, he'd need a nicely tailored one.

With a frown, he turned toward the shoe cabinet. That was easy, too. The seasoned Italian leather caught his eye and joined the jeans on the chaise without so much as a thought. Accessorizing the outfit before he picked the top half wasn't the smartest move, but—well, this was art, after all.

Flipping his hand along the rack, he returned to the button-ups, selecting a black military-style one. He held it up in front of the mirror and studied his reflection critically. The pockets—the pockets were troublesome.

He dropped the shirt and turned to his accessories. He selected his favorite watch, an intricate little beauty that he'd had custom made in Diagon Alley last year.

Hm. This meant he needed to be able to roll up his sleeves. He turned around one more time to face the double rack of hanging shirts, when his wife stuck her head through the door.

"Draco, you're still in your towel! What on earth is taking you so long?" she demanded.

He sighed and gestured mutely at the shirts.

She rolled her eyes and huffed, then crossed the closet and grabbed the gray Oxford he'd first considered.

"Put that on, you diva," she instructed, sweeping her red hair into a messy bun as she stepped over the clothes on the floor to leave. "And don't you dare leave that towel on the floor!"

He glared at the doorway. She might be a decent judge of his clothes, but she certainly knew how to kill the mood.

* * *

A/N: I liked this one better before I cut it.


	61. Hello

It was a beautiful day, and Ginny Weasley had no need for men.

She sauntered down the quiet street, just off Diagon Alley, and hummed like a girl without a care on spring day, a girl who enjoyed the blossoms of the newly awakened spring in this small Wizarding community.

Which was, of course, an outright lie.

She hummed the hit that Magical Mayhem had just released and sighed. It wasn't like Dean had cheated on her. He was just being a stupid man. A man who shared a decidedly Gryffindor lack of tact, causing the two of them to blow up at each other nearly every day.

She shouldn't have expected the break-up to be clean, she thought ruefully. But he really hadn't needed to say that about her _mum_.

The farther she got from the flat they had shared for the past two months, the heavier her steps. Moving in together hadn't been the best idea. The relationship was already explosive enough before they shared a bathroom. It was a ticking time bomb.

A bird chirped, and Ginny frowned. She probably hadn't needed to say that about his _dick_, either.

But what was done was done. She'd said good-bye to Dean, told him where to Floo all of her stuff, and she'd take the weekend to drown herself in ice cream and novels before she resurfaced on Monday, ready to take life by storm, man-free.

Yes. Man-free. It had a nice ring.

She turned the corner onto the main drag of Diagon Alley, determined to acquire some ice cream before the denial left and the grief set in, when she slammed into a tall figure.

"Watch it," she cried, but her balance had been compromised, and she tumbled to the sidewalk.

"Why, Miss Weasley," came a male voice with a sweet, jovial timbre, "hello!"

She looked up and took the extended hand. "Blaise Zabini. Taken to _literally_ knocking the ladies off their feet these days?"

He grinned. "I hardly need to, the way they keep running head-first into me," he said, chuckling as he pulled her up. "May I buy you an ice-cream to make up for my magnetic qualities? It's a grievous flaw, and I'm_ always_ trying to make up for it," he added with a wink, offering his elbow.

She accepted his arm with a smile. Man-free certainly didn't preclude free ice-cream.

Right?

* * *

A/N: Written while listening to The Beatles – Hello Goodbye.

It's kind of funny, because I just told darcyMitch that my fear of writing Ginny/Blaise stems from the fact that I'd feel like I was writing _Draco _and calling him Blaise. But this was actually Draco, and I realized after the first line of dialog that I was writing _Blaise_ and calling him Draco. So I remedied the situation, and I'm happy with the result—even though it's entirely un-edited. ^_^


	62. Break Away

She catches my eye because she's hovering at the edge of the room, carefully avoiding the gravitational pull of the swirling ball gowns. Rather than sitting like the other women around the room, she seems content to stand, and with a stealthy glance around the room, she slips off her shoes and hides them under the billowing satin of her skirt.

The orchestra strikes up another celebratory tune, and yet another distinguished looking gentleman approaches her with something resembling refinement. He's an amateur actor, but the stage is a cheap one and the lighting lacking, and so the baby aristocracy is bamboozled by itself once more. She, however, is not. She takes the offered drink, hints at a smile, and summarily dismisses the cheap player with a brush of her shoulders.

A woman who doesn't comprehend that moderation is the key to appreciating fine vintage interrupts my observation, and I lose sight of the unsociable young woman. Her shoes lie abandoned against the far wall, but the warm red tones of her hair have fled the room.

I pick up a pack of cigs and glance at my boss. He nods, and I take my leave of the bar. The kitchen garden isn't lit, and the flare from my wand shines brightly as I light a fag.

She's leaning against the wall, staring at the stars. I walk over and hand her a fag. She smiles wearily, thinks about declining, and then slips it out of my fingers with a shrug.

"Hard to survive these things without one," I tell her, lighting the tip.

She takes the first puff and grimaces, but bravely inhales again. "I can see why."

I lean against the wall beside her, and she sighs. "I never thought it would be like this."

"Inaugural balls aren't really your thing?"

She laughs bitterly. "My thing is fighting evil and loving my family. Impossible these days." She looks at me, almost surprised. "What about you? Your thing was money and power, and now you're—"

"Happy."

I watch as her surprise melts into envy, then sorrow.

"I used to be jealous of all your money. Only child, new everything. When you got the Nimbus 2000s, remember?"

I nod, and she turns her face back up to the sky and takes a long drag.

"Maybe my fate is to always be jealous of you, Draco Malfoy," she whispers.

* * *

A/N: Honestly, I got stuck on "Break me off a piece of that Kit-Kat bar!" and it all went downhill from there.


	63. Giving

"_The only reason to give philanthropically is to preserve public image."_

The Malfoy Scholarship Fund granted full scholarships to twelve needy Hogwarts students last year.

"_That's absurd, Draco. Charity is a necessary virtue."_

Bright Stars, a program dedicated to serving Squibs and their families, received a 10,000 Galleon grant from the Malfoy Foundation this spring.

"_The Malfoy Estate is charitable."_

Much needed improvements to and endangered dragon reserve in the Andes mountains of Chile were fully funded by a generous endowment from the Malfoy family.

"_Charitable only when it serves your interests. What about sacrifice? Generosity?"_

The sparkling new public Wizarding library, first of its kind on Diagon Alley, was named for the late Narcissa Malfoy when it opened this summer.

"_Philanthropy can serve the public good and my own good simultaneously."_

The refurbished theater just hung a gold plaque in the gallery with the names of the Wizarding World's favorite couple.

"_Maybe the good of your bottom line, but certainly not the good of your heart."_

The Ministry of Magic's Auror team were thrilled by the new fleet of Firebolt 3s, and the Head Auror even laid aside an old grudge and shook the benefactor's hand.

"_You think my heart suffers because I don't throw my wealth around willy-nilly?"_

A trust fund and a new organization with a very powerful president enables veterans, widows, and orphans of the war to receive all the support and benefits they require.

"_No, but I think it doesn't open like it should. Like it could."_

And the newest addition to St. Mungo's, which delivers the best care and is free to all patients in need, is known as the Ginevra Malfoy wing.

* * *

A/N: Make of that what you will. *shrugs* And give to charity today, okay?


	64. Competitor

"Stevens passes to Green—Green passes to Weasley—Weasley's closing on the goal—there's her famous Woollongong Shimmy—and Weasley puts it away! The Falcons are poised to set a world record tonight!"

Ginny waved and flashed a smile at the screaming crowd. Ron was going to kill her for practically murdering his favorite team, but the Cannons were playing worse than the Moose Jaw Meteorites, and that was saying something.

Green pulled up alongside her as the Chasers regrouped as the Cannon's keeper prepared to throw the Quaffle back into play.

"Think Malfoy will ever catch the bloody Snitch?" he whispered archly. "We're winning by nearly a thousand points. The Cannon's Seeker might be tempted to catch it just to end this ruddy nightmare and put her team out of this misery."

Ginny glanced up and spotted Malfoy, high above the pitch, staring intently at the stadium below him.

"Lay off. We're in prime position for a record-setting win. _I'm _not complaining, though my arse is getting tired of this broom—and not in the nice way," she said with a wink.

The Keeper threw the ball and she jetted up to seize it from an orange-clad Chaser. She tossed the red ball to Stevens, who easily scored again. The crowd, clearly sensing a historical game, cheered with hoarse voices.

Ginny looked at Draco, who hadn't moved. Mahoney and Green were going to give it to him in the locker room, and she didn't feel like defending the bloke to his face. For all that he didn't deserve the hazing, he was still a Malfoy.

Mahoney dropped down beside her. "We're a goal and a Snitch away from history, Weasley. And our Seeker's a goal and a Snitch away from competent."

Ginny glared. "And you're a goal and a Snitch away from satisfying your girlfriend, you lug."

Stevens whipped the Quaffle through the goal with alarming ease, and after a burst of cheers, the crowd went quiet. Everyone—from the referee to the spectators in the VIP box to the Cannons Keeper—had their eyes on Malfoy.

The rookie Seeker merely reached down and plucked the hovering Snitch from the air beside his knee with a smirk.

Ginny shook her head and grinned as the crowd let loose a deafening roar and Mahoney's jaw dropped open. Forget history books. This was the stuff of legend.

* * *

A/N: Have I mentioned that I do waaaay too much research when I write Quidditch fics?


	65. Surface

Ginny slipped across the torn-up street, keeping one eye on the loose cobblestones and the other on the quiet avenue. The Muggles had deserted this place months ago, but it made a good hiding spot because she could travel from one Apparition point to the next without leaving tracks—magical or muddy.

A stone shifted under her feet, and she swore as she wobbled, then ran her hand over her hair, sweeping the flyaway strands back into the messy ponytail as she regained balance. She cursed her jumpiness; crossing the street was easy compared to killing Death Eaters.

On cue, a distant pop of threw her heartbeat into third gear. She crept toward an empty house and kept her head down. Fighting in a war and being on the run for this many years meant that some things were just instinct.

She skirted the doorway and did a precursory check of the room. Empty. She breathed a sigh of relief and turned back to peer through the streaked window, then froze. The tell-tale prod of a wand jabbed into her spine.

"Try anything at all and you'll find yourself under a very nasty curse," drawled a voice. "I've already used the Cruciatus, so perhaps Imperius? I'm not sure we're ready for Avada Kedavra."

Ginny clenched her jaw and raised her hands slowly. "How did you find me, Draco?" she hissed.

"Tracking charm," he said matter-of-factly.

She turned her cheek to look at him over her shoulder. "I removed that," she said angrily. "I removed both of them."

He smiled. "There's one under the surface of your skin, love. The only reason it took me this long to find you is that I'm not the one who put it there. You can thank your over-protective mum for that."

Ginny froze. "What did you do to my mum?" she breathed.

He ran the wand up her back to her neck, then leaned in to kiss the curve at her shoulder.

"Nothing a good son-in-law would," he whispered in a comforting tone. "But I'll promise to be better about not torturing my in-laws if you'll promise to be a good girl and come home."

She exhaled slowly and turned around, allowing him to take her wand and pull her close enough for side-along.

"This isn't over, Draco," she said with a defiant glare.

He smiled cruelly. "I should hope not."

* * *

A/N: Oh boy.


	66. Dark

Lucius slid his fingers over the satin bodice of her gown with an intent that was anything but fatherly. She wriggled away, glancing in the direction of the party. A faint laugh echoed down the long oak-paneled hall.

"Hush," he whispered, pulling her from the corridor through the door to his study. "There's a good girl."

Ginny swallowed and pushed his hands away. "No," she breathed. "Not like this."

He tipped up her chin, enjoying her stubbornness. "If not like this, then how, my dear? Would you rather sneak away from your husband and come to me in the night, crawling into my bed like you do his?"

Ginny looked away, cheeks flushed. The room was dark, lit only by a lamp on the large oak desk, but she could see stars through the paned glass of the windows. They glinted back at her, obliviously happy.

"No," she whispered. "I don't want that, either."

Lucius gave her a smug smile and tenderly ran his fingers along her cheek. "Then turn around," he commanded softly.

She bit her lip, trying very hard to pull herself to her full height. "Not now. Not tonight."

He let his hand slip behind her ear, his fingers pressed sharply against the base of her skull. "You risk my displeasure. Given your situation, I advise against that," he said icily, just inches from her face.

She let out something between a cry of pain and a whimper, and he let her go. She wobbled unsteadily in her heels for a moment, then slowly turned around.

He ran his hands around her waist, skimming them over the carefully fitted green satin, before he made the languid journey up her back to undo the small row of buttons that kept the strapless gown against her skin.

"Lucius?" she asked quietly, turning her head.

He didn't pause, but slid another button through the tiny ribbon. "Yes, my dear?"

She squirmed, and he could tell she was having difficulty not flying at him, or fleeing the room, but he knew she wouldn't give him trouble. He'd trapped her too well.

"I—I—you—" she stammered.

He ran his fingers down her exposed spine and she shivered. "Yes?"

"Draco won't find out, will he?" she whispered, worry catching on every word.

Lucius smirked and pushed her toward his desk. "Oh, no. We'll be very certain of that."

* * *

A/N: Um. The prompt said Dark. *shudders* I do not like this plot.


	67. Taste

"Just a taste, love."

Ginny paused, glancing up into his cool silver eyes with an unspoken question.

He gave her a comfortable smile and lifted a single dark cherry from the bowl. "They're excellent. Dark and juicy."

It was just a berry. She took it and sucked the firm fruit into her mouth, popping the stem off with her thumbnail. She cracked the firm skin of the fruit with her teeth and the sweet juice gushed out. He was right – it was excellent. She had another.

"Just a look, darling."

She was less sure of herself each time they met like this.

He, however, seemed to be more and more comfortable, as if he did this sort of thing all the time. He brushed his fingers along the strap of her dress. "No one needs to know."

It was a harmless striptease. She slipped one of the thin straps to her sundress from her shoulder, then the other. She pulled the light cotton of the sundress over her warm skin with her fingers, suddenly chilly even thought the room was full of sunlight, but invigorated all the same. He was right – it was exciting. She pulled the dress down further.

"Just a touch, Ginevra."

She swallowed, so tempted that it hurt, but her mother's warnings echoed in her ears.

He seemed to sense her hesitation and pulled her closer on the velvet chaise, brushing his lips against the shell of her ear. "You'll always wonder."

It wasn't like he didn't love her. She put the motherly wisdom away and lifted the top over her head slowly, enjoying the greedy look she inspired in those otherwise controlled gray eyes. She leaned into him and shivered, letting his hands wander as they pleased. He was right – she had no need to wonder.

Now she _knew_.

* * *

A/N: Again, this is Lucius to me, but I know the last one was Lucius too, so if you're still reeling from that crazy triangle, this can be Draco. ;)


	68. Fixed

"Daddy! Daddy, my Princess Hover Broom is _broken_!" exclaimed a voice near Draco's elbow.

He didn't look up. "Lyra, I'm working right now. Tell your brothers to fix it."

She sighed so dramatically that the sleeve of his robe wavered. "But they broke it! If only you and Mummy could see that and send them away," she said, shaking her head with a knowing frown.

Draco snorted, dropping his pen. "Your mum loves your brothers very much. And you'd miss them, too. Don't you miss Alexia?"

She made a very ponderous face, then shrugged. "Nope," she announced. "She can't tell me I'm being too dramatitic if she's far, far away."

"Dramatic," Draco corrected.

Lyra waved her hand dismissively. "Yes, that's what I said." She paused, then pointed to a pile of pink and purple wood and straw on the floor. "So since you're done working, can you fix it?" she cajoled.

Draco sighed. "There's a reason I hired all those nannies. And where are they?" he muttered under his breath.

"Oh, they're coaxing Grayson out of the apple tree," Lyra chirped.

Draco glanced sharply at her. "What?" he demanded. "Since when do two-year-olds manage to get into trees?"

"Since Lucas landed him in it," Lyra explained slowly, as if she was speaking to Grayson.

Draco glared. "Your mother might call you precocious, but I call that attitude cheeky."

She considered this, then sighed. "Sorry, Dad. Will you please fix my broom? I'll be 'spectful."

"I will, but you need to tell me what happened after Lucas put Grayson in the tree." He knelt next to the pile of wood and started separating the pieces, then drew his wand and began repairing the stick.

Lyra licked her lip. "Marc _stole _my Princess broomstick." she said indignantly.

Draco looked up. "Where were their brooms?"

"Marc's was in the tree," Lyra said calmly. "They were shooting Grayson up there and it got stuck."

"They were 'shooting' Grayson into the tree?" Draco asked dazedly, attaching the stirrups to the repaired broom.

"Yes," said Lyra, taking the toy. "The hover brooms don't get very high by themselves, but if you shoot 'em off each other, they'll zip up! Thanks!" She scampered back outside.

Draco, strangely exhausted, sank into his chair.

"Shoot 'em off each other…" he repeated, then sat bolt upright and ran for the door.

Forget nannies. He needed to hire dragon tamers.

* * *

A/N: Oh, the childhood memories...


	69. Hate

Draco Malfoy did not have a breakable heart, and he preferred this, much in the same way he preferred his tea with cream and one sugar.

And, just as he'd never woken up one morning and said, "From today on, I shall like tea best with cream and one sugar," he'd never decided to have an impenetrable soul. It was simply part of his being, like being blond and a Malfoy.

Perhaps he'd developed a taste for it – he used to take his tea with two sugars, after all.

He'd certainly developed a fondness for a certain red-haired firecracker of a witch, and that had been a slow process. Liking Ginny Weasley wasn't an instinctual part of his being.

First he'd savored the sharp banter, enjoying her bright eyes as she whipped out an acerbic retort to his comments about her work, her family, and her person. From there, he'd come to appreciate her kisses—firecracker wasn't the half of it—and not long after that, there was the way she'd challenge his opinions, his assumptions, and his very being.

She even turned up her nose at his tea and drank hers black.

In short, the fondness for the witch became a risk to that unbreakable heart.

And so he started to shove Ginny Weasley away from that sanctum. The banter turned cruel, and he started to loathe the moments when, instead of bright eyes, he was faced with hurt, shocked tears. The kisses turned into throwing matches, and on one very awful Tuesday, he cut into her own opinions and assumptions like a crazed killer wielding a butcher knife.

When she finally left, he waited for the relief to wash over him, and fixed himself a cup of tea with shaky hands. He laid the cup on the coffee table and dropped his head into his hands, upset and confused, but with his heart very much intact.

She lifted his face in her hands and kissed it.

"I don't know what's got into you, but this—this isn't you," she whispered.

He snorted. "Oh, this is me. I can understand why you hate me," he said proudly.

Her forehead crumpled as she shook her head, still pressing her small hands against his face. "But I don't hate you, Draco. I couldn't."

And with that, his heart gave up, and broke.

* * *

A/N: I couldn't make it dark. I just _couldn't_.

(I wrote this at 2 AM, so there are probably errors. My apologies.)


	70. Time

What was time beside the flicking passage of the sun?

It went round and round, unchanging in its route or its glare, and having lasted for a brief while longer on that untiring wheel did not make one person worse than the next. Wiser, perhaps. And certainly, a little more weary of the world and her wild dance. But not worse.

So why should it matter how old he was?

Ginny looked up hesitantly at Lucius, who was ensconced in a wrap of sunlight and the morning paper. Light from that unyielding sun drifted into the solarium, and she had another nibble at the croissant, mindful of the butter that slid across the flaky bread and onto her fingertips. She caught him peeking around the side of his Prophet as she licked them.

Sleeping with a man who was old enough—older than—her father always seemed like a distant premise, something to be laughed over and then shrugged aside surrounded by the ridiculousness of impossibility. Her mum had clutched a hand to her breast at the news, as though she couldn't find the space to breathe in a world the contained such impossibility—such ridiculousness.

But Ginny found plenty of space to breathe. More than she ever had.

She let her tongue linger on the butter that dripped from her littlest finger, and he snapped the paper shut and folded it neatly. He beckoned her closer, and she rose willingly and moved to his side of the table. Falling into his lap was too easy, and the way his hand found its way underneath the silk of her dressing gown was easier still.

He'd lasted far longer under this sun, she mused as the morning light traced her forehead in a parallel fashion to his lips as they traced her jawline.

There was nothing the matter with that.

* * *

A/N: Guess what I've got?


	71. Sorrow

The hooded woman walked through the dim church, sliding her hand along the solid pew at the back of the decrepit sanctuary. Sunlight filtered in through the stained glass, shooting jets of color across the room. She avoided those, stepping gingerly around the glowing, puddled light that littered the flagstones.

"Well, well. My darling Ginevra."

The drawling voice echoed across the crumbling cathedral, and the girl let her hand drop away from smooth wood. Her shoulders rounded as she turned to face the speaker, mindful of the glass crunching under the soles of her shoes.

"I did what you wanted," she said quietly, but even the low tone couldn't hide the ferocity in her voice.

A man stepped out of the shadows of a small archway and slid his hood back to reveal his shining white-blond hair. "I should hope so," he said with a smirk. "You're a smart girl."

He crossed the floor, striding through the rays of sunlight and the gloomy shadows without flinching, and reached for her wrist. He inspected it, then pushed back her hood and grabbed a fistful of her red hair in his black gloves, checking her neck. She submitted to his examination without complaint, waiting silently for him to release her. He dropped her hair and folded his arms, but his eyes would not let her go.

"And the child?" he said coolly, glancing at her stomach. The robes betrayed her, catching on the barely-there bump just above her navel.

A sudden desire to sob welled up deep within her, beginning somewhere between that alien bump and her throat, and she desperately wanted to scream and sob in a heap at his feet. But that would never do. She was a soldier—or desperately pretending to be one.

He frowned at her silence. "The child, Ginevra?"

"Everything is fine," she bit out. Except that it wasn't. She'd never be able to tell the child—the baby—how _sorry_ she was.

He arched an eyebrow. "You remember our arrangement. Draco is to hear none of this, yes?"

She nodded, hating the thick feeling in her throat. "I won't tell him until you—until our—until the baby is in your arms."

A sudden urge to be sick flooded her body as she imagined that conversation. She wasn't built to be a soldier. Wasn't built to betray.

Wasn't built to birth the Malfoy heir.

* * *

A/N: I kept trying to think of the thing that would make someone feel the most sorrow, but I kept thinking of things that were just sad. I kind of wanted to kill Draco (for Karla's sake), but that was just depressing. Then I thought about losing a child, and then I thought "what if it isn't because the child _died_," and this just sort of ... happened.

I blame the margarita.


	72. Take My Hand

"I can't live with myself, Gin," Draco confessed, watching his fiance's eyes for any sign of agreement, or perhaps regret. There was just sadness in those strong brown eyes, and he had to look away.

She was quiet, slipping her hand over his and stroking the smooth skin of his palm with her thumb as she hummed a little sigh. He never knew what to do with her when she was quiet like this, but it felt remotely nurturing, and he allowed her to keep his worthless hand.

"You've done so much good, Draco," she murmured. "Think of the charities you've begun—the funds for all the orphans of the war—"

"Orphans who never needed to be orphaned," he said bitterly, hating the whine in his voice.

She clenched her fist around his hand and swore ferociously. "That was not your fault. You didn't orphan anyone."

He felt that familiar wisp of belief well up in his heart like a thin trail of smoke wafting from a snuffed candle, curling around his heart tentatively. The belief that she might be right. He felt it begin to slip away, the hope transient as always.

Ginny sank off the couch and looked up at him, slipping her hands lightly over the thin cotton of his trousers until they rested on her knees.

"I will not allow to lose hope again," she said staunchly. "Take my hand, Draco."

He set his jaw and ignored her. No amount of philanthropy could redeem the lives lost and shattered permanently. None.

"Take it, Draco," she ordered. "Take it and look at me. If you're going to let me see your darkest weaknesses, you're going to have to show me your deepest strengths. That's just how it works."

She was stupid to love him. But he inhaled slowly and grabbed her hands. Her eyes were earnest, and so hopeful that it hurt.

"Love is stronger than death, Draco. Maybe it's time you quit wallowing in the misery of repaying a debt you can't repay and just start _loving_, for Merlin's sake," she said, exasperation and passion obvious.

Running a hand back through his hair, he looked up at the ceiling. "But Gin, I don't even know where to start."

She yanked his face back down. "With me, you gigantic, depressed git. We'll work our way up from there."

* * *

A/N: This isn't my favorite, because I got stuck on Les Miserables as soon as I saw today's prompt:

_Take my hand,_

_And lead me to salvation._

_Take my love,_

_For love is everlasting._


	73. Pulse

The doorframe wasn't built for this type of treatment.

She hadn't stopped to consider this when she'd peeled her shirt off along with her jacket, throwing the latter in the closet and the former on the floor. She didn't know why she'd taken off the shirt. It was a stuffy blouse and she'd worn it all day, and it had wanted to be off.

He hadn't even said hello, and his lips were on her neck. "How," he breathed, "was your—day?"

"Tired," she replied, frantically tipping her head sideways, nudging his jaw aside to find the place just under his earlobe. He wrapped his arms around her, one hand pressed between the sharp wings of her shoulder blades and the other loosening the businesslike chignon of red hair into loose waves.

He stole the first true kiss a moment later, but they already knew they were gone.

She slipped a button loose and he smiled against her mouth, not breaking the tight embrace. She undid the next and the next with increasing speed, finding each new button uniquely frustrating until she undid the last with a sigh and pushed his shirt to the ground. She laughed contentedly, kicking off her heels and falling into him, letting her hips roll against his frame.

He gave her a low growl and, grabbing her thighs, lifted her up and pushed her back into the doorframe. She wrapped her stockinged legs around his waist, selfish and gluttonous in her quest for more—more skin, more kisses, more _him_.

"The—door—" she gasped, and he swung her around and headed for the nearest couch, his hands wrapped around her arse and his mouth busy against her neck.

"Bed," she demanded, realizing his destination. "Please—I—"

He pulled away to arch an eyebrow and shake his head, then returned his lips to hers as if he was starved, and magicked them into the bedroom. He threw her onto the bed and climbed on top of her, ready to kiss her again when he paused.

"You're sure your day was okay?" he queried.

She kicked her heels against the coverlet and clutched at his neck, dragging him down and wrapping herself around his strong torso.

"Shut—up—" she said, pulling him to her neck so that his teeth dragged along her pulse point, "—and _make_ it okay."

He obliged.

* * *

A/N: Gosh dangit, I ran out of words! What a bother.


	74. Illusion

Draco flicked his wand and the wall sconces lit, filling the corners of his room with dim, flickering light. He sagged against the door, and it sank into its jamb with a quiet click. The drop of the tumbler roused his attention, and he slowly surveyed the room.

The space was deceptively calm. A small fire crackled in its grate, casting flickers of light and shadow onto the rich rug that covered most of the floor. Draco slipped off his shoes and walked to stand in front of the flames, enjoying the plush carpet. The elves had turned down the bedclothes, and he looked at the crisp sheets and downy pillows longingly, but the burned firewood cracked and settled, rousing the girl.

He heard her stir and turned warily. She blinked at him.

Damnit.

"You're not in bed." He said the words flatly, without accusation, without question. She stared, her gaze fixed in a sleepy stupor. She soundlessly turned her head a fraction, shoving her cheek into the velvet chaise. Loose, tangled hair tumbled over her shoulders, littering her cheek with fine red strands.

"Go to the bed," he ordered, loosening his tie. He pulled the gray silk from around his neck, dropping the silvery fabric to the carpet disinterestedly. She watched it, fascinated.

He sighed. "Please. Get in the bed."

She sat up slowly, curling her legs into her stomach. "I want to stay here," she whispered.

Draco rounded on her, grabbing her arms and lifting her bodily from the chaise. He jerked her to her feet and pushed her in the direction of the bed. She gave him a half-hearted sob and a look of sheer hatred, but acquiesced. She crawled on top of the emerald coverlet and sat cross-legged, glaring.

He shoved his hand through his hair and shed his clothes rapidly, then tugged on a pair of pajama bottoms and collapsed next to her, burying his face in a pillow.

"Lie. Down," he ground out, and when he didn't feel her move, he blindly reached up an arm and forced her back, scooting her under the covers. He ignored her yelp of protest and dragged her closer, wrapping his arms around her wriggling frame. "Stop it, you stupid girl. You know what happens if you aren't _here_ when _he _checks."

She stilled instantly. Draco exhaled with sheer relief, and then extinguished the candles.

* * *

A/N: This could go with **Doorway**. Or maybe **Servant**. Perhaps both. Though maybe it stands alone. I'm seriously running out of inspiration for these last thirty. :(

Also, because it's 2 AM and I probably just confused you by being overly vague, I'm going to explain: there are several illusions here, but the central one is that Draco is making it appear to '_him_' that he has more thorough control of Ginny—and that Ginny is more thoroughly broken. There's more going on, but that's the gist.

(You know what's _really_ bothering me right now? The fact that Draco doesn't brush his teeth before bed.)


	75. Pillow

"You really want to waste a whole Sunday in bed?" Draco chided. Even though she screwed her eyes shut, Ginny could still picture him above her, standing next to the bed, arms folded and eyebrow scornful.

"S'not wasting it," she muttered, tugging the warm, snuggly duvet over her head. "S'a good use."

He harrumphed loudly for her benefit and stalked away. She sighed and focused on returning to that dream—the one involving that tropical island, with the lovely beach and warm—"SUN!" she shrieked.

Draco had yanked open the drapes, returned to the foot of the bed, and ripped the covers off the bed, and therefore, off Ginny, with a sharp pull.

"It's eleven o'clock," he said matter-of-factly, "on a beautiful September morning. I would very much like to spend the day with you, but first you need to _get out of bed_."

Ginny growled and kicked her feet, hunting for the edge of the downy blanket. Draco smoothly slid it farther away, and her moan turned into a growl as she jerked her pillow out and buried her head in its warm, dark softness with a sigh.

_Tropical…island…_ "OW!"

She yanked the pillow off her head and sat up, glaring at him with unbridled ferocity. "Did you just slap my _bum_?"

He grinned. "Morning, darling. So lovely to see your face."

The pillow hit him squarely in the nose.

* * *

A/N: Yeah, this isn't based on actual events at _all_…

_(And OMG only 25 left!)_


	76. Free

_Harry._

Her heart did a weird, leapy-sinky thing when she saw him in the doorway, frazzled and distracted, like he was in a hurry. And worried.

"Ginny! Oh, thank god Ginny, you're alive—we—Merlin we need to leave _now_," he said. She could hear the commotion from downstairs. It sounded violent and destructive. He beckoned to her, but she didn't move. Couldn't move. Her heart felt strangely frozen inside her chest, and her feet with it.

Harry shook his head, and his mop of black hair swung around as he did so. She watched as he stepped through the door and clutched her wrists, lifting her from the bed with strong hands.

"Let's go," he said fiercely. "I need to get you out of here."

She dropped to the ground as soon as he set her on her feet. She couldn't—wouldn't—

Harry sank down beside her. "Are you hurt?" he asked frantically.

She nodded, then shook her head. "I don't know," she admitted, her voice raspy and foreign to her ears. "I need to see Draco. Please," she pleaded. "Where is he?"

Harry blanched. "Dear god. Oh, Ginny—Ginny, we—we need to get you out of here."

He scooped her up in his arms and ran. She hid her eyes, burying her face in the warmth of his neck as her stomach twisted and turned, trying to make sense of the rest of her body.

She felt the tight pinch of Apparition, pulling her from the inside out. It didn't agree with her roiling stomach and she choked back bile. She kept her eyes glued shut as he set her down. There was grass under her hands. She was outside.

"You're free, Ginny," Harry said, collapsing against the bark of a tree.

She smiled faintly and clutched her knees to her chest. "That's okay, Harry. Draco will come and take me home soon. He promised."

* * *

A/N: That last line gave me the creeps. And _I _wrote it.


	77. Joy

Draco knew joy.

He had been beside himself with joy when the Healer at St. Mungo's had handed him the small bundle of pink. "You have a daughter, Mr. Malfoy," she'd said, her eyes twinkling as she placed the newborn in his shaky arms.

"Oh, Gin," he'd whispered. "She's perfect, isn't she?"

It had been a crazed, euphoric sense of happiness. He really hadn't known he had it in him to be so elated that it felt obscene. He kissed little Alexia on her tiny nose and felt like he might burst—she had his nose.

x

When the Healers had announced that Ginny was expecting twins, he'd been a little staggered. On their first day home, he put both of them on his lap, side-by-side against his legs, and stared at the two perfect boys in awe.

"Hello, Marcus and Lucas," he said quietly, "My little emperors. Oh, the things you will do. I hope you like Quidditch. And finances."

x

By the time Lyra was born, Draco felt more than a little consumed, and a dark part of his heart wondered if the famed Weasley fertility could only be avoided by abstinence, a route that made him want to weep.

But the sweet baby girl in his arms was so delicate, especially when compared to her rough-and-tumble three-year-old brothers. Even her propensity to flail and cry dramatically when she missed a feeding couldn't stop him from feeling incomprehensible love for her tiny person.

x

The last baby—Ginny swore it would be the last, because she really was determined to have an actual career—was born too early, and Draco's heart twisted as the Healers frantically applied spells and potions to the tiny infant and its mother. Strange emotions welled up in his chest, and for a very nerve wracking moment, he felt something like desperation.

Then, amid the whirlwind, a green-robed Healer placed the smallest bundle in Draco's arms with a smile. "He'll be just fine," she said, and this time he was so relieved it felt obscene.

Draco sank down on the bed next to Ginny. "For a moment there, I—" he admitted, but she shushed him, holding her arms out.

"I want to see Grayson," she said, smiling tiredly as he handed her the child. "Oh, love. He looks _just_ like you."

Yes. Draco knew joy.

* * *

A/N: I seriously hate the cheesiness here, but I also seriously love this universe. :)


	78. Abandoned

Day 1

She spits in the Death Eater's face and laughs uproariously at the idea of torture and rape. Merlin's balls, the _idea_. She enjoys his discomfiture and keeps her eyes on the door; she's ready to knee him in the groin the second Harry bursts through.

Day 8

A bit hungry now. The Death Eater scum have provided water, but it's meager and her lips are chapping. She keeps her mouth closed and breathes through her nose—unless the guard checks in. She taunts him obscenely for shits and giggles. The Order'll be here any moment.

Day 19

Damp and cold, and her body is achy from sleeping on the stone floor of this makeshift dungeon. It's naught but a cellar with chains driven into the walls, but the chains are a nasty business. They've rubbed a raw, bloody ring around her ankle. She doesn't mock the guard. Better save her energy for that escape.

Day 34

The first time they question her, they hurt her in more ways than she thought possible. They rip her in two and crow over her blood. Her only revelation is that this is why they waited—she is too hungry to fight back and too tired to care that she is naked. She doesn't tell them anything. Her dreams are proud.

Day 4-

She is so hungry. Lying down hurts.

Day 5-

They announce that aside from her blood, she is worthless. They say that she knows nothing, and she smiles. Idiots. She will not be broken. And she will have her revenge.

Day 5-

They give her a nice room, a nice bed, nice food. She is finally full. Then she has a smirking visitor, and he lets it slip why her blood is so valuable. She vomits when he leaves. Malnourished women can't get pregnant.

Day 8-

Her stomach glows blue and she tries to rip it from her body. He holds her arms behind her back. Forces her to eat. Forces her to sleep. Forces her to be healthy.

Day -

She hates Harry. Hates her family. Hates the Order. She would die, but _he _will not let her. She wonders if he actually cares about her. Cares about more than her womb. She certainly doesn't. She could probably die if she was creative. But the boy—the baby—the son—she cannot abandon him.

Will not.

* * *

A/N: I know, I know. Another dark one. But hey, it was also hopeful! Kinda. If you squint.


	79. Tower

She hated that he was a full head taller than her.

Not that she'd admit that to his face. But Ginny was an athletic, competitive girl of greater than average height, and she was used to looking at her boyfriends in the eyes—or very nearly. And that was nothing a good pair of heels wouldn't fix.

So on their first date, when she realized that she had to look _up_ to Draco Malfoy, she was cross.

"Why are you so damn _tall_?" she complained at dinner.

He smirked, and leaning back in his chair, stretched his long arms behind his head. "Good genes, excellent breeding, and all the best care a growing child could want," he said smoothly, leveling a smirk her direction. "Long, lean builds make for excellent Seekers. And excellence in other departments, too," he hinted meaningfully.

She folded her arms at the arrogant git. "As if being tall makes you better at 'horizontal activities.'"

"Don't have to be horizontal," he said affably, then lowered his voice. "And I said _long _builds, not tall."

She sneered, but changed the subject.

A few hours later found them at the front door of her flat, and she fumbled for her wand in the half-light as he stood at her elbow. His presence felt very large and very…male, and she couldn't help but snap,

"Merlin's nuts, Draco. Must you tower over me like that?"

He laughed quietly, a low, resonant sound. "You don't like that I'm so much taller than you," he chuckled.

"No. I don't," she said, finally grabbing her wand. "It's been lovely. I'll call sometime." With a quick _Alohomora_, she unlocked the door and reached for the handle, but he caught her wrist.

He pulled her close, wrapping his arms around her body so that she was pulled almost flush against him. Her nose grazed his collarbone, and his smell—cologne and books and something not unlike sweat—was instantly heady. He propped his chin on her hair for a moment, then tilted his face down and kissed the crown of her forehead before releasing her.

"I rather like being able to do that," he mused, then turned with a slight wave. "And_ I'll_ call _you_."

As soon as she remembered how to breathe, she sank through the door and into her flat. Perhaps height wasn't a deal-breaker. But she was still buying another pair of heels.

* * *

A/N: See! I _can_ do lighter fare! *jeers at the naysayers* (Also, 400 'zackly)


	80. Waiting

By all rights, Draco should have been married three years ago, Narcissa reasoned. Her son was approaching twenty-five, and it was high time he got used to the idea of being a husband.

Not that she blamed him. In Narcissa's eyes, Draco was never to be blamed. His philandering was the fault of his father, his laziness the fault of the company he kept (young Mr. Zabini _smiled_ indolently), and his lack of stability the fault of that unfortunate little war.

However, she had a very decided ambition to be a grandmamma, and this aspiration required that Draco find a wife.

So Narcissa had lined up all sorts of charming debutantes and held luncheons and balls and formal teas, pulling the strings of society masterfully.

But he seemed diligent in escaping society altogether: "I can't stay to tea, Mother. I'm going riding with a friend."

She was disappointed, but she merely sent up a quick wish that neither the horses nor Mr. Zabini would damage her child.

The following week: "I'm sure Miss Greengrass is very talented, but I promised a game of Quidditch to a friend."

Quidditch over women. For the first time, a dark thought entered Mrs. Malfoy's mind—Draco and Mr. Zabini? _Lovers_? She banished the thought.

A fortnight later: "I have a date in Diagon Alley, Mother. I can't—"

"Oh, Draco!" Narcissa cried. "If you are in love with Mr. Zabini, just have it out so I can mourn the existence of grandchildren. I'm tired of waiting."

Draco looked stunned. "Zabini—?"

"Don't act naive. I know you're not interested in the young ladies. I—"

Draco gave her an amused smirk. "Apparently, I'm going to make more than one woman very happy tonight. I haven't been spending time with _Blaise_. I've been seeing Ginny Weasley. And I'm going to ask her to marry me."

Narcissa snapped her mouth closed. "You're going to—a _Weasley_?" she whispered.

Draco rolled his eyes. "Yes, Mother. She isn't as refined as Miss So-and-So, but somehow, I love her."

Narcissa blinked, then smiled. "If you love her, how can I not give you my blessing. And just think of that famed Weasley fertility…!"

She didn't miss Draco's groan. But he was nearing twenty-five. It was high time he got used to the idea of being a parent.

* * *

A/N: I know they're both rather OOC. *waves dismissively* We'll pretend it's AU or something. This is the seventh-inning stretch and I can't be bothered overmuch.


	81. Blood

Draco sat cross-legged on the center of his bed, lips curled sullenly. He flipped a knife from hand to hand, tossing the lean blade over and grasping the ivory handle just as the cold steel grazed the fine cotton of his pajamas.

A commotion outside his room didn't cause him to look up, much less drop the small weapon. The door opened and a smaller figure was thrust through, and he listened long enough to hear the bolt click with a magical thud before he gave the knife a grander flip, sending it swooping dangerously close to his toes before he grasped it solidly and looked up.

It was the Weasley girl. His father hadn't been bluffing. Draco watched her scream and beat on the door for a moment before he laid the blade on the nightstand.

"I can't let you do that," he said. "I'll get in trouble."

He watched her freeze, then slowly turn. "What are you? My guard?" she hissed, instantly defiant.

"No," he said tiredly. "You're my test."

Her hand went instinctively to the doorknob, and he watched the fear play out crazy plans before her eyes. He needed to get this over with before the stupid girl hurt herself trying to escape.

He motioned for her to come closer. "Are you a virgin?" he asked bluntly, and to her credit, she shook her head and walked to the edge of the bed, eying the knife.

"Malfoy…what exactly is your test?"

He ignored her and picked up the blade, commencing to flip it again. "It's better if you're a virgin," he sighed. "They'll have me keep you if I break you."

"What do you mean, keep me? And _break_ me?" She set her jaw, and he noted that she was not weak. She would, however, need to be schooled in the art of deception.

"If you're mine, they won't rape you," he said simply, and held out the knife.

She swallowed and took it. "Rape me?" she whispered.

"What do you think my test is, Weasley?" he said sullenly, and her eyes went wide.

He stood up and pulled the sheets back on the bed, stretching the coverlet back to reveal the crisp, white linen underneath. "We're going to need that knife," he said quietly, "if we're going to save your life."

* * *

A/N: If you don't get it, look at the prompt and think reeeeal hard.


	82. Silence

"We need to stop meeting like this," she says with a half-laugh.

I am silent, but I watch the way she stands boyishly, hunched against the wall so that the fine blue satin of her ball gown hangs and crumples in a way that would make her dressmaker cry bitter tears. She drags on her cigarette with an unaccustomed easiness and puffs smoke into the starry night sky.

"Strong silent type, hm Malfoy?" she inquires, still gazing at the night sky. She shivers a little, and I realize that the night is chilly. The summer season is nearly ended, and her shoulders are bare.

She laughs suddenly, a hollow, bell-like sound. "No, you were always the one with the bullying retort. Nott played the silent type. Merlin knows what part he's playing now," she says dismissively.

I do not feel compelled to tell her that Nott is dead, so I shrug and lift my face toward the stars. They are cool and soundless in their distance, barely twinkling in this clear autumn sky. Some things do not change, no matter the movements of wizards. The thought comforts me.

"I'm a rebel," she says suddenly, straightening carefully and dragging her toes along the fine gravel as she stands to her full height. Her shoes, I assume, have been abandoned once more. She watches me, and I do not give her the satisfaction of shock.

Instead, I smile. "Rebellion is overrated."

She crows. "I knew you still knew how to smirk, Draco."

My name hangs in the air for a moment, and she settles back against the wall. "You probably still know how to do a lot more than smirk," she says quietly, and I meet her fierce brown eyes.

"I know how to sneak away from my job for a cig and some silence during a crowded cotillion," I say deliberately, taking a drag on my own fag. "And for me, that is quite enough."

She sighs, murmuring her agreement. We both look up at the stars.

* * *

A/N: Out of the dozens of worlds I've created for this project, this is one of the most fascinating to me. I hope you like it too. ^_^


	83. Noise

_White noise._

Everyone will not stop telling her what to do. Ron is screaming, she thinks to herself, but doesn't bother understanding him. She wishes Charlie didn't look quite so disapproving. She wishes they would all sit down and shut the fuck up.

_Pink noise._

Maybe it's her heartbeat tapping its merry way through her skull like a marching drummer, or maybe it's the way all the blood in her body is racing to her head. Her muscles are tight and snappish and she wants to scream and cry and make them understand.

_Violet noise._

She slams the kitchen door to The Burrow and breathes in a deep, gasping breath, then runs for the trees. Tears whip off her cheeks and sail back behind her, falling to the damp evening grass as she heaves for breath.

_Blue noise._

She crumples onto a fallen tree and sits back on her hips, curling her arms into her stomach for a good cry. Should have known they wouldn't understand. Draco was right—secrecy was the far easier course, no matter how ignoble. But she loved him, she thought fiercely. Love should be able to survive in the light of day. She ground her fingernails into her palms.

_Red noise._

A branch cracks and a hand claps her shoulder. Charlie sits down and wraps a long arm around her shoulders, pulling her puffy, tomato-red head onto his shoulder, whispering comforting, brotherly things. He knows about secret loves. He congratulates her honesty. He will break Malfoy's nose if he ever needs to.

_Black noise._

She wraps her arms around him. The world starts to fade back into colors and shapes, and the tears recede and are blinked furiously away. Ron will still be a colossal git and the twins' teasing must be borne, but she has an ally. She smiles.

* * *

A/N: I'm well aware that this won't make sense if you're not vaguely familiar with the colors of noise – I work in the recording industry, and when I first learned that the sound engineers name types of noise by color, I was fascinated.

You can read about (and hear) these different types of noise by searching for the "Colors of Noise" article on Wikipedia. Then my ravings might make more sense. Or I'll seem crazier than ever. No promises. ;)


	84. Standing Still

The business end of a wand jabbed into the base of her skull, and Ginny froze.

"Good evening, Miss Weasley," a smooth voice intoned. "Do be good and drop your wand."

Ginny slowly lowered the thin stick of hazel and dropped it on the floor. It ricocheted off the hard wood of the desk and bounced just slightly on the plush, Oriental carpet that covered the floor of the dimly lit study.

"Good," her enemy breathed. "Now, to what do I owe the pleasure of your company?"

"I'm locating proof that your father is working with Dark wizards in Albania," she said, hoping that the truth might at least cause him pause and buy him the time she needed. She whipped around and connected her boot to his shin, reaching for his wand, but her attacker yanked it out of her way and shoved her backward, causing her lower back to hit the edge of the desk with a sickening crunch.

"My father has been dead for a decade, Miss Weasley," Lucius Malfoy said coolly, placing a hand on either side of her hips, inclining his body until he was barely an inch away from hers. "And he hated Albania."

He drew one hand up from the desk, dragging it along the side of her body. She recoiled only to accidentally push herself closer to his other arm, which he wrapped around the small of her back.

"You're young. Very young to be doing such dirty deeds."

She angled her chin toward his. "I'm good at what I do."

He glanced at her wand, forsaken on the floor, and smirked.

"I have a proposition for you, Miss Weasley. You return to your precious Order, or Ministry, or whatever asinine group, with nothing."

His hands still played along her lower back, and she stood still in his arms. "I don't see how that is a proposition."

He smiled charmingly. "You agree to never come back, and I agree to allow you to leave intact."

Ginny was momentarily bewildered, until he added, "If you break your promise, then I will break you." His eyes were dark as his hands encircled her waist with a vice-like grip before he let her go.

Ginny summoned her wand and Apparated to her safe point, where she exhaled and squared her jaw. If that was the game Lucius Malfoy wanted to play, then she would _play_.

* * *

A/N: I thought I'd try a fic with Lucius and Ginny that wasn't really, you know, Lucius and Ginny. And I'm so very tired tonight; I feel compelled to apologize now for any mistakes.


	85. Treasure

I never understood the point of treasure.

Money serves an obvious purpose, and all the trappings that come with it—Galleons stored in Gringotts, investments in profitable establishments, and extensive property are all useful in their way. I've certainly comprehended the benefits of each; there is certainly something to be said of wanting nothing.

But treasure is merely to be hoarded. Looked at, polished, then tucked away in a vault or a safe. No purpose, and no use.

º º º º º

"What is this?" I asked my husband with all the candor and indignation of a young wife betrayed. I held up the vial of clear liquid, dangling it from my fingertips.

He snatched it smoothly from my fingers and deposited it neatly in the breast pocket of his robes. "What is what, darling?" he said in his smooth, aristocratic drawl.

I rocked back on my heels, confused. "The vial—"

"A vial, darling?" he said silkily, drawing his hand along my neck with casual affection.

I pulled away, feeling the strings of my heart beginning to unfurl, risking my carefully trained poise. "The vial," I said icily, "of Veritaserum. In your desk. Just after the reports of its use on—"

The hand on my neck was no longer casual. His fingertips bit into the tender skin along my spine, and my throat fought for air.

"I haven't seen such a potion," he said calmly, the expression in his eyes even and incomprehensible. "Perhaps you should rest this afternoon, darling. I don't want you to worry yourself sick over imaginary evils."

His hand traveled to my waist, where it found a lighter perch. I stepped backward, just out of his reach.

"I'll be in my parlor, then," I murmured, checking my voice but not my glare. "But Lucius?"

He considered me thoughtfully for a moment. "Yes, my_ treasure_?" he finally drawled, using the endearment he knew I hated.

"Be careful," I said quietly, chafing at his condescension.

He gave me a mirthless smirk. "You too, Narcissa. I suggest you start by staying away from my desk."

* * *

A/N: I hate writing first person. *sigh*

This is a new pairing for me. Well, outside of _Red Ember_. Thoughts?


	86. Mother Nature

Draco tipped up the blonde girl's chin, and she shook her loose hair back over her shoulders. She was crying, and he always lost patience a bit faster when they cried.

"I want to be clear," he said coolly, holding her chin with his thumb and two elegant fingers, "that when I'm through with a girl, I'm through. There will be no sobbing, no stalking, no vengeance, and no sappy love letters shoved under my door."

She nodded, and her lip quivered. "They—the other girls said—you said—" He smudged a tear from her cheek and dropped her head.

"_I _said no sobbing," he said coldly.

She had the grace to flee.

º º º º º

"Ginny, what on earth is wrong with you?" Ron demanded, "You haven't touched your food all week!"

Ginny sighed and shoved the scrambled egg across her plate. The sight made her feel sick. "Not feeling very well," she muttered.

"You've been ill for weeks," Hermione worried. "Madame Pomfrey—"

"I don't need a doctor!" Ginny snapped, rising from the table with a jolt. "I'm fine."

º º º º º

Draco scowled and rounded on his shadow. "You know the rules," he barked at the tapestry.

"Trust me, you bastard. I wouldn't break your precious rules if I didn't need to. My rules included never speaking to you again," Ginny cried, stepping out of the small alcove. "But Mother Nature seems intent on making me break that."

Draco sneered. "That's a new one."

He watched as her anger visibily deflated. "I heard Hannah crying this morning. I'm sure you told her she was a princess too. How long did you think you could keep abusing women and not face the consequences?" she said slowly, picking up steam. "You're nothing but a cowardly, selfish, _lying_ bastard, and I hate you."

He regarded her coolly. "There are no bastards in the Malfoy line, Miss Weasley."

She arched an eyebrow as her face flushed pink. "There will be," she said, her voice tight as her hands flew to her stomach. "You've made quite sure of that."

* * *

A/N: Cliché, cliché, cliché. I don't like this one. I wanted to go creative, but it was too complicated, and I got really distracted by Red Ember, and now it's midnight and golly gee, I just don't care!


	87. Obsession

"_I am 'sessed with purple!"_

**A List of the Most Treasured Possessions of Lyra Malfoy; Auror, Diplomat, Quidditch Star, and Fairy Princess:**

1. Princess Penelope Hover Broom in plum.

2. The lilac satin party dress, which is perfectly lovely but not good when combined with the Princess Penelope Hover Broom.

3. Violet the pony and her purple tack, from last Christmas. Also not very good with party dresses.

4. All seventeen pairs of shoes, but the sparkly purple ones 'specially.

5. The business robes that match Mummy's, but in purple instead of green. These look nicest with the sparkly purple shoes.

6. Grayson's favorite rattle, safe in the mauve treasure box. Technically not a possession, but excellent for blackmailing the baby. And, in some cases, the nannies.

7. The magical doll-castle from Grandmamma, particularly because all the outfits change to fit your 'magination, so everyone can wear lavender.

8. Mummy's old attaché case. Brown leather, but covered in enough sparkly pink and violet stickers to make it pretty enough to accompany the shoes.

9. Make-up squirreled away from Alexia's vanity (and, in one instance, Mum's) in every shade of the rainbow. Emphasis on purples.

10. The amethyst tiara _with real amethysts_. From Daddy.

* * *

A/N: Super short, I know. I'm not a fan of either of tonight's. But I was heading down a really dark road and all I could think of was that line from Spilled Milk.


	88. Magic

Lucius Malfoy smiled down at Ginny, satisfied.

She lay in a crumpled heap, and every movement was pain, pain, pain. Magical maladies and broken bones alike sent waves of hurt through her fingers, her thighs, and her teeth. She'd been so stupid. They'd told her to stay home, and for once she'd obeyed. But the raid had been on Grimmauld, and—

A Death Eater's boot met her ribcage and she screamed as her fragile, broken bones shifted underneath her skin.

"That's enough, Avery," Lucius said sharply, and he bent down and slid Ginny's wand from her limp grasp. She'd lost the magical strength to wield it hours ago, but she still felt the loss deeply.

"That's m-mine," she rasped.

Lucius smirked. "You won't be needing it, child. Blood-traitors don't deserve the power to wield magic." He turned sharply to Avery. "Put her in Draco's room. The boy wants more responsibility; we'll see if he can manage this one."

º º º º º

Draco looked at her for a long, calculating moment as the commotion downstairs increased. "Ginevra, I—you'll be needing this," he said slowly, and drew a thin stick of hazel wood out from the pocket of his robe.

"That's m-mine," she whispered, stunned.

He handed it to her with a cautious breath, and she felt the magic leech from her marrow and sinew, stirring dizzily within the core of her being. Draco watched her carefully. "It's a witch's right to do magic, and I'm sorry for—for everything. But—I—will you come with me?" he asked quietly. "Entirely your choice, of course."

She reached out and wrapped her arms around his waist, kissing him fiercely as he held her in a bone-crushing embrace.

A shout from below startled them both, and Draco hurriedly pushed her toward the fireplace. Lifting the careful wards and restrictions, he spelled the Floo powder before throwing it into the flames. "Untraceable," he explained, pulling her toward the green fire. They tumbled out into what seemed to be the parlor of a small cottage, and Ginny could hear the sea through the open windows. She turned toward Draco and collapsed against his chest, and neither needed words for a long moment.

Draco Malfoy smiled down at Ginny Weasley, satisfied.

* * *

A/N: Yep, there was a significant time-gap in-between those two vignettes. Possibly one in which some other drabbles occurred ...


	89. Multitasking

I wonder if I got that report in to Robards' desk in time. I really hope so, because he's been extremely grouchy lately and I really don't feel like being yelled at again. That'd make the third time this month. Not as bad as Finnegan, but he's always cutting up and probably deserves it.

Oh, Seamus has a birthday next week. I'm supposed to buy him a card from the division. I think Chang is taking care of the cake. Yeah, that's right. I can put off my shopping trip until—no, damnit, I can't. I'm completely out of bread, and I need toast in the morning or my whole day is off.

While I'm at the market I really ought to do the rest of the shopping. I think I'm out of eggs. That's what I get for letting Ron crash here when he's out with 'Mione. That man can put away an omelet like nobody's business.

Damn, I should probably call 'Mione and see how she's doing now that they've made up again. I wonder if she's preggers or something. Ron was here a lot before Hugo was born. Jeez, I better invest in a bigger couch if that's the case.

Investments! Crap, totally forgot to deposit my salary at Gringotts today. I'll have to do that tomorrow—I think the Saturday hours are different. Do they close at noon? I think that's right. I better go before noon, just to be safe. Godric knows I won't have time on Monday, since—

"Ginny?"

—since Draco wants to meet me for lunch. "What?"

"Are you even paying attention?"

"Yeah, why?" I wonder if he'll agree to dinner, if I—

"The hell you are. You're completely distracted. And when I'm _snogging_ my _girlfriend_, I don't like her to be distracted."

It's like he's never heard of multi-tasking. "I'm not distracted at all, love. I was just thinking about dinner on Monday, and—"

Wow. Wow, wow, wow. There's a _reason_ I'm dating this man.

* * *

A/N: Hee hee! (oh, c'mon, you know you've done it too…)


	90. Relaxation

Ginny padded across the sparkling white sand to the edge of the dewy-green sea. The water waved over the flat, packed surface and ran back away from the shore in foamy rivulets, grazing over her bare toes.

She waded into the warm, clear water, letting it come up to her ankles and then her knees. She'd never known that the ocean could be so warm and inviting. Downright gentle, really. The slow waves tickled her thighs as the sparkling surface came up toward her in smooth rolls.

"Ginevra!"

Her fingers, which grazed the surface of the sea, dropped her sides. "Yes?" she called out over the expanse of water, which now covered her navel. She didn't want to give him the satisfaction of turning around.

"Come here. Darling."

She rolled her eyes up toward the sky. And he said she wasn't good at putting on a show. "I'm wading right now. Darling."

A splash behind her caught her off guard, and she turned in time to watch him cut through the shallow water with long, even strokes. He was beside her in a matter of seconds, and the water dripped lazily off his body as he stood and rested his hands lightly on her bare waist.

"You really want to fight with me _again_?" he drawled into her ear before kissing her neck. Ginny swallowed, tempted to shove him into an oncoming wave—and simultaneously tempted to tip her head back to offer his lips better access.

His hands traveled up her bare back and toyed with the knot at the back of her bikini. "Dare me, dearest?" he mocked, peppering her jaw with light kisses. He was so unbelievably close; she couldn't help but watch the sparkling drops of water sliding down his bare chest—

"Untie it?" she asked in horror, forgetting all about droplets as his intention sunk in. "You can't!"

"Oh, can't I?" he said, smirking.

Ginny shuddered. "The photographers, they'll—it'll be all over the—"

"The papers?" he clarified between kisses. "No. I sent all the paparazzi home for the day. They're all back in England busily writing about the carefree relaxation of the Malfoy newlyweds."

Ginny relaxed for a brief moment—then suddenly felt frozen.

If there were no photographers lurking nearby, ready to believe their happy charade, why was Draco _kissing _her?

* * *

A/N: I _told_ you Red Ember was distracting me. *sigh*

TEN LEFT!


	91. In the Eye of the Storm

"I daresay the snow is slowing."

Draco walked to the window and squinted through the paned glass out at the dark, hushed night. The flakes illuminated by the faint light of the window swirled wildly in the gusting wind, frenetic and primal in their frigid dance.

"It still looks to be a mighty blizzard, Nott," he said in reply, lifting the decanter of brandy from the adjacent bar. "Whether your imagination or otherwise, it's nothing but the eye of the storm. Brandy?"

Nott accepted the cup with a slight nod. "I've had my fill of business, Malfoy. How are things outside the hallowed halls of the bank?"

Draco gave him a wry look. "You're asking about Mrs. Malfoy," he said flatly.

Nott smirked. "How is your darling prize? Still enjoying her unmanageable temper?"

"It's far from unmanageable," Draco said coolly.

"Oh-ho, I see," Nott chuckled. "So that little run-around she gave you at Zabini's party was a one time occurrence? Pity. I so like to see you speechless; it happens so rarely."

Draco's fingers tightened around his glass, and Nott smiled contentedly.

"Are you suggesting that I can't control Ginevra?" the blond asked tersely, eyeing the snow, which fell steadily despite Nott's prediction.

Nott handed his empty cup to his host. "Not precisely. I've seen how adept you are at controlling your wife's _behavior_. It's remarkable how well she's learned to handle herself—unless she's vexed, of course."

Draco refilled the glass and returned it, eyeing his guest with suspicion. "She's a clever witch."

"Very clever, to have married you. Smart girl, seeking out the very center of this stormy world in which we live. Hardly an accident on her part."

"What are you insinuating?" Draco asked sharply.

Nott leaned back on the black leather of the sofa and smirked. "Adept at controlling her manners, you might be. But your ability to control your feelings for the darling girl is sadly blind."

"She is my _wife_, Nott. Are you suggesting I have reason to be less than fond of her?"

"No, but Marcus might," he replied. "I suggest you have a chat with our mutual friend, lest certain interests become inexplicably compromised," he paused, gauging the calm fury on his friend's face. "And—I think you'll agree—a lovely little tête-à-tête with Mrs. Malfoy might be in order."

Outside, a gust of wind drove snow against the window.

* * *

A/N: This is a prequel to Broken. That dastardly Theo…


	92. In the Moment

Smoke and traces of hot magic rose from the blackened site of the battle, and Ginny glanced across the field, searching for a head of platinum-blond hair.

"Oh, Ginny, you're alright!" her mum cried, coming up from behind her and enveloping her daughter in a massive hug.

She returned the embrace distractedly. "Yes, Mum. All fine."

Draco was nowhere to be seen.

º º º º º

Diagon Alley bustled happily—two years had passed since that evil day, and there was not even a hint of tragedy among the shops and shoppers. Ginny lounged back in her chair, enjoying the passer-by as she sipped her coffee from the vantage of the sidewalk café.

"Ginevra."

She looked up, startled. "Dra—Mal—hi. Will you sit down?"

He shook his head. "I—well, I have an appointment with my father's attorney."

"Oh. Right, I read about his plea in the Prophet."

Draco shoved his hands in his pockets and glanced down the street. "I still think about—everything," he admitted.

"We had fun," Ginny said quietly.

He exhaled. "Yeah. I better go."

º º º º º

She met his eyes across the crowded station platform, and took in the pretty blonde wife and poised son in a glance. He knew he was looking at Harry—at James and Lily and Albus—in the same way. Wondering what if and why and to what purpose.

She missed him for the first time in years.

Harry wrapped his arms around her waist as the train pulled away, and she rested her head on his shoulder, letting him comfort pains she'd never had the courage to share.

An owl arrived that night–

_We had fun._

"Yes," she whispered, crumpling the slip of parchment into a ball and tossing it into the fireplace. "Yes, we did."

* * *

A/N: So I just typed the prompt into YouTube and wrote this drabble while listening to the first song that came up.

It was Justin Bieber: "Stuck in a Moment." This drabble is _actually inspired by_ that song.

O_O (Of all the things I've done for the sake of this challenge, this is perhaps the lowest).


	93. Innocent

"ALEXIA!" Draco yelled, running full tilt down the long hall. He slammed into the heavy wooden doors at the end of the cellar corridor with his full force, his heart cold and frozen inside of his chest. Gin's security detail would arrive any moment, but if he was too late—

"_Reducto_!" he cried, blasting the thick oak into smithereens. Splinters rained down, and he whirled back, throwing the thick wool of his cloak up in front of his face.

The tableau before him turned his red fury into white rage. His daughter was pinioned against the wall by a grotesque looking man, dressed in black robes and pointing his wand at her neck.

"I kill 'er," he said in a heavy foreign accent.

"The hell you will," Draco spat, and dispatched the man with a curse he hadn't uttered in nearly two decades.

"Oh, Daddy," Alexia sobbed, clutching his chest. "They said that you weren't—that Mum was—"

"Hush, darling girl. Your Mum is fine." He lifted her up as if she was a small girl instead of a growing fourth-year.

"You're not hurt? Those men—they didn't touch you?"

She sobbed. "Not until—just now, they said they'd k-kill me. They said they wanted more than ransom—they wanted Mum to pay for signing those new laws, and I was the perfect way, and oh! They said awful, awful things about what they would—"

"No need, princess. No need to remember. You're safe, and those men won't be harming you or your Mum again. Forget it, darling girl."

She hiccupped back a sob, clinging desperately to his robe. "Oh, Dad. I don't think I _can_ forget."

Draco's heart sank as he remembered the first time he'd feared for his life—the first time he'd seen a man die. His stomach twisted as he recalled this loss of innocence.

He wished thing one could Oblivate this sort of thing, or that he could time-travel and prevent the kidnappers from ever snatching his eldest daughter from Diagon Alley.

With a heavy heart, he lifted her from the room and carried her into the hall, where he cuddled her into his chest, stroking her silky strawberry-blonde hair as they waited for the security detail to arrive.

He needed to make sure they noticed the ugly black tattoo on the dead man's arm, so remarkably similar to his own.

* * *

A/N: Yes, this is the 'large family 'verse' taken in a rather dramatic direction.

You have to be quite stupid to stand between Draco Malfoy and his children, I should think.

**ALSO: I have six of these bad boys left. Most likely less by the time you read this. If there is an arc or universe that you'd really, really like to read about one more time, let me know!**


	94. Trouble Lurking

He took in her pretty little form, sprawled out naked and satisfied across his sheets. Her eyes shut slowly and barely opened. She curled like a cat, curving her limbs and arching her back, then tightening into a lovely crescent, resting on her side. Radiant against his sheets.

He smiled as he smoothed his sleeves, watching her taut muscles flex and relax against the satin. He remembered the first time – how shy she'd been, how reticent to let him remove her gown. Tonight, her worship had been inspired by a single word, and it had been exquisite.

She blinked at him, her gaze indolent with contentment and wine.

"You're getting dressed," she observed, drawing her hands up to rest prettily by her face. He noted that she moved more delicately, more graciously, than she had when he'd first noticed those long, lean muscles. She'd transformed and opened from a boyish tomboy to a lovely young woman. It suited her well.

"Why are you dressing?" she asked petulantly, stroking the satin.

He ignored her and buttoned his shirt, beginning with the collar and slowly working his way down.

She sat up suddenly, as if she sensed a lurking trouble, and curled her legs underneath her body. "You're going to tell my father," she accused in a whisper.

"The Minister's daughter does not wish him to know?" Lucius said airily, buttoning his cuffs neatly.

The girl grabbed a pillow and held on violently. "I'm not afraid of you, Lucius."

He looked at her sharply, measuring her carefully. She didn't shrink back, but clutched the pillow ruthlessly.

"No," he said slowly, "I don't believe you are." He stood, leaning against the bedpost, his bare feet sinking into the carpet of his bedroom floor. "Not anymore."

She met his eyes evenly, and her breath came in little seizures of anger. "You will not tell my father," she said evenly.

He chuckled, then lunged at her, grabbing her wrists and pinning them to the soft mattress above her head. "Oh, won't I?" he breathed, enjoying the instant of fear that flashed across her face as the pillow flew across the bed and hit the headboard with a thud.

"No," she breathed, smiling triumphantly and wrapping her legs around his waist. "Because I will."

* * *

A/N: By request of Jack Tamara (and indirectly, Lia), and with a little help from tequila, we now drop the curtain on the Drink - Heartless - Taste universe. I'll leave it to you to decide who won the final hand. ;)


	95. Working Together

"I really don't think the targeted marketing you recommended is doing any good at all."

Draco pretended to consider this ridiculous statement before rounding on the speaker and slamming his palm on her desk.

"An entire department and a team of consultants would beg to differ, Ginevra," he said tersely. "Your business acumen is sadly under-realized."

The red-head frowned dangerously. "It's _Ginny_. Insult me again and I'll hex you through the window. It's only eighty storeys down, my dear co-chair," she said sweetly.

She lifted a parchment scroll from her desk. "I had the data from the Quidditch division compiled by product, and I think you'll find that there is no correlation with your precious advertising schemes."

He snatched the scroll and unfurled it, letting the neatly lined paper drag on the floor. "But we're still turning a profit," he muttered grudgingly as he studied the carefully tallied percentages.

"But that margin could be increased by a tenth of a percent if we changed the way we're advertising in The Prophet," she said smoothly, straightening her skirt as she stood.

He arched an eyebrow. "So you didn't just spend your time shagging, hm Ginevra?"

"Ginny. And no, I did a great deal with my time. Snogging, shagging, generally licentious behavior…" she said sarcastically.

"I suppose you picked up your knowledge of marketing while snogging?" he asked dryly.

Her eyes glinted, and she walked in front of the desk to stand next to him. "Orgies," she whispered conspiratorially.

He nodded thoughtfully, then picked up his quill and added a few notes the scroll. "There, and there," he murmured.

"Ah, but—" She pointed to a column.

He frowned. "Oh, yes, or if we—" Draco crossed a few sums out and adjusted the percentages.

She sighed. "For all that I hate you, we do work well together," she said, examining the new tables. "All these numbers are making me miss those long nights of debauched business meetings," she added absently, chewing her lip in thought.

"Dash it_ all_, Ginny," Draco complained, throwing his quill down violently. Without further preamble he reached over and proceeded to snog his business partner senseless. She didn't seem to mind.

**Mini-Epilogue:**

Mervin ripped the tabloid off the newsstand and crowed over the picture of Mr. Malfoy and Mrs. Malfoy snogging in Paris. Engaged! Oh, he needed to call his broker. Such _delightful_ stock prospects!

* * *

A/N: This is what happens when Leigh brings her work home with her. *laughs*

Kim (Boogum) requested that I add on to the Anent/Pen and Paper world, and I was quite happy to do so. I've developed a soft spot for Mervin. ^_^


	96. World

A/N: Continued from **Contempt**

* * *

Her view of the world had never wavered.

She was Ginny Weasley, red-headed, Muggle-defending, heroic. She was destined to be good at Quidditch, have a splendid amount of children, and save the world from dark magic. She was loyal to her family, noble in her virtues and courageous to a fault—and had been since before she'd known what those words meant.

But now, curled up like a small rock in the middle of the gigantic bed that she'd shared with Draco for years, she wasn't sure she still knew.

Sunlight glinted through a sliver of a gap in the heavy drapes, and it rested idly on her forearm, then caught the rock on her ring finger to dazzling effect—light glanced off the precious stone and cast beams of fairy-light all around the dim chamber. She jerked her hand away from the treacherous beam and sat up, yanking the coverlet around her shoulders.

He'd given her that ring because he'd _loved_ her.

Her mind ran wild with what he might do. Harry and the rest would probably figure out that she'd been compromised soon enough, but Draco held all the cards, from the protection wards on the property to the marriage vow itself. And he—he could be very, very cruel.

She ground her face into her hands and tried to breathe. Her stomach twisted with the sick, sick shame of discovered guilt. She'd worked so hard to staunch that guilt, but now it bubbled out of her heart in a torrent of vile emotion.

It only took one, heaving sob to realize the truth. She was _sorry_.

Not sorry that she had been caught. She was Ginny Weasley, courageous to a fault. But noble in her virtues?

The tears gave way to violent sobbing, and she cried until she felt sick, then sank into a heap against the headboard. This was not her world. Was never supposed to be her world.

* * *

A/N: The next drabble will conclude this arc. Whew.


	97. Marriage

The sunlight slid along the surface of the bed just slightly, and she realized unwillingly that at some point, she'd need to get out of this bed, when a quiet knock on the door startled her.

"Come in," she said mournfully, and hoped briefly that it was just a house elf with food.

Luck was not with her—and why should it be? Draco closed the door behind himself and observed her impassively. He came to stand next to the bed, fingering his wand idly.

She licked her lips nervously, waiting for the glove to fall, but he was silent.

"I—" she started impulsively, then stopped, checking his reaction. There was none. "Draco, I—I know it probably won't mean anything, but—I'm sorry. So very sorry."

His eyes were mercurial, and she was sure she saw fury—and sorrow. "I'm not going to be able to forgive you overnight," he said quietly.

Her face crumpled. "No, I don't expect you to. Just divorce me, or—or kill me…"

His hands reached out and flicked a tear from her cheek, then cupped her chin. "I'd never kill you," he said, his tone low. "But after what you've done, and with the people who know about it—" he paused, his look pained.

"Flint is a brute," she hissed, and Draco jerked her face toward his.

"Flint might be a brute, but _Nott _is no fool. I'm going to be cleaning up for sometime. And until I do—and until I've proven beyond a shadow of a doubt that you really are sorry—I'm keeping you here, in this room. I have questions for you, and Flint and Nott will want—" he stopped suddenly, and glanced sharply at her. "You'll stay _here_."

She nodded in defeat, looking away from his cool gaze. He pulled her face back up toward his. "Gin—do you want me to divorce you?" His voice was lazy but his eyes were earnest.

She shook her head. "No. No, I don't."

He nodded thoughtfully. "Then I don't think I will," he drawled, and pulled her head to his shoulder. "I rather like the idea of being married to you."

Wrapping his fingers in her hair, he kissed the crown of her head hard, and let her cry.

* * *

A/N: And we'll let the curtain fall there - so far as _Myriad_ is concerned, at least. ;)


	98. Fighting

A/N: Continued from **Roots.**

* * *

Ginny's life flashed before her eyes when she saw Draco holding their son. Her son.

Alex had been all smiles, but his happiness faded as soon as he saw his mum's face. Something was wrong, and he began to fuss. "Mummy?" he asked in a high voice.

"It's okay, sweetheart," Ginny reassured him. "You're fine."

Draco gave her a look and re-settled the boy in his arms. "What's your name?" he asked, his tone light.

Alex stared at him, shrinking back slightly.

"His name is Alex. Alexander," said Ginny hastily, moving forward. "Let me take him and we'll work this out."

Draco sidestepped her. "No, I don't think we will. I've spent years looking for you, and I won't let you—" he paused, and looked at Alex intently. The little boy was fretting outright now, and his lower lip quivered precariously. "How old is he?"

"Almost two."

Draco shook his head and gave her a look of pure disgust. "Despicable, Ginevra. That you had the audacity to run away, letting me think all sorts of things, is one thing. But this? Keeping a child from me for—for years?"

"You're scaring him," Ginny replied stoically. "And I had my reasons."

Draco sneered at her and gave his attention to Alex, who was crying in earnest now. He whispered something in the little boy's ear, and the crying turned to sniffles.

"What did you tell him?" Ginny demanded, feeling outright rage beginning to swell. "What lies are you feeding my child?"

Draco arched an eyebrow. "I told him that he was going to be perfectly safe," he said gently, "and that his mum would be perfectly safe, too." His eyes glittered dangerously. "Care to make those into lies?"

Ginny glared at him. "I hate you."

"The feeling is rather mutual," Draco said coolly, shifting Alex to his other shoulder. "But I'm going to give _you_ the choice to be in your child's life. He will return home with me; you're welcome to join us. If not, I'll have the divorce papers owled to you. With a custody addendum."

He had her cornered neatly. It would have been stupid for her to think he'd do otherwise. But she'd left him before. She could do it again.

She sighed heavily. "I need to pack."

He smirked triumphantly and kissed Alex on the forehead. "Take your time, darling."

* * *

A/N: I know – hardly an ending. The opposite of one, really. But so many people asked for more of this world, and though I tried and tried to think of a way to give you an 'ending' to it in a drabble, I really couldn't do it in a way that seemed fair to all parties.

So I did the next best thing and just started the fic. ;) Keep an eye out for it this fall!


	99. The Time of My Life

A/N: Continued from **Silence

* * *

**

The air is too chilly to sneak outside for my usual fag, but she's watching me surreptitiously. I know she's waiting for me to take my leave, to take my fifteen minutes of respite from this ball.

By midnight, her patience is thin. One of her brothers addresses her quietly, and she jabs him with her fan. He grips her wrist and lowers it, and the telltale Weasley flush creeps up both necks as they try desperately to control those flaming tempers. It's been a long time since they've had a common foe.

The brother steps aside first and she harrumphs triumphantly. She weaves past him, ignoring all the silk-clad well-wishers that bow and curtsy as she passes, and steers herself through the swirling crowd to land at the bar.

I am busy pouring champagne for the midnight toast when she accosts me.

"When are you getting out of here?" she demands, her voice low and eager.

I top off a flute with a well-practiced flick of the wrist. "At four," I answer crisply.

"No, silly. When's your break?" She smiles, the happiest she's looked all night, and helps herself to a glass. I replace it without comment.

"Are you not enjoying your evening?" I say quietly, aware that I'm not answering her question.

She laughs and slaps the bar with her palm, and I realize this isn't her first glass of champagne. "And I thought you were perceptive, Malfoy! Can't you tell I'm having the time of my life?" Her laughter is pale.

"Then I pity you deeply," I murmur.

She leans across the bar, and the red satin of her gown pulls and bunches up against the polished wood, displaying the bare skin just below her already low neckline. I look away.

"Did you just say you _pity_ me?" she asks incredulously, tipping the last of the champagne down her throat and taking another full flute.

I relieve her of the drink smoothly, ignoring the way her gloved fingers linger on my skin. "That's for the New Year toasts," I inform her. "And I think you've had enough."

"Are you protecting me? I'm Ginevra Weasley, war-hero and socialite. I have no need of protection," she crows.

"Friendship, then," I amend.

The mirth dies in her eyes, and she sits upright, resting her hands on the bar neatly. "Very well," she says quietly. "Friendship."

* * *

A/N: Have I mentioned that I love this world? I'm very sad to see it end. Thanks go to the readers who requested I visit it again. :)


	100. Old

The steam from the Hogwarts Express hissed across the platform at King's Cross, and the Minister of Magic couldn't help but cry.

"Grayson, remember to write home. Daily!" Ginny Malfoy enveloped the small blond boy in a bone-crushing embrace.

Grayson, possessing the grace to tolerate his emotional mum without protest, shared an eye-roll with his father.

"Once a week'll do fine," Draco drawled. "As long as the owls are coming from you and not the headmaster, that is."

"I resent that remark!" said a young man, taller than Draco, with a mop of curly golden-red hair.

"Yeah," said his twin. "Me and Luke write more than McGonagall does. Between us, anyway."

"I was referring to _Alexia_," Draco clarified. Alexia's career at Hogwarts had rivaled her twin uncles', and everyone was thankful that a career as an Auror suited her much better than school.

"Well, you still get into trouble. And I never do," Lyra interrupted primly, kissing her mum on the cheek.

"That anyone knows about," Marc muttered.

Lyra smiled charmingly. "Jealousy doesn't suit you, Marcus." She turned and hugged her father impetuously. "I'm going to miss you _terribly_, Daddy!"

Draco ran his hand over her golden hair. "I'll miss you a million purple sugar quills," he whispered conspiratorially, and she winked.

"I see some friends, okay?" she said excitedly, and after a nod from Ginny, she ran over to a group of boys in Slytherin uniforms.

"Who are they?" Draco asked sharply.

Luke and Marc shared a glance and shrugged. "Slytherins."

Ginny glanced at Draco nervously. "Keep an eye on her, boys. You're seventh years, and she's just a fourth—she'll need looking after."

Luke laughed. "We'll watch Grayson, but Lyra doesn't need protection, Mum."

"What on earth do you mean by that?" Draco demanded, his eyes trained on his daughter.

Grayson groaned. "Dad, please don't make a scene. Worry about _me_, not Lyra."

The conductor's whistle blew on cue, and after a final flurry of hugs, advice, admonishments, and tears, the four Malfoy children were safely on their way.

Draco slung his arm around his wife's hip. "And then there were two."

"Are you suggesting I'm old?" Ginny laughed.

He pulled her close. "No, I'm suggesting that we have the Manor to ourselves, and I intend to take advantage of that. That is, after I've owled Lyra's Head of House."

Ginny swatted him, and then kissed him soundly.

* * *

A/N: Family-universe for the win!

AND I AM DONE!

Goodness _gracious_. If you had told me last June what I was getting into, I would have laughed at you. Looking back over the last one hundred days, I'm flabbergasted by how much can happen in that amount of time. I celebrated my anniversary, earned a promotion, buried my grandfather, went on vacation, worked a kajillion hours, and WROTE ONE HUNDRED DRABBLES!

I need a nap.

Once I'm properly refreshed, I'll be right back at it – I have several projects lined up. Most importantly: I'm hoping to update Red Ember before Halloween.

Of course, I'm also planning to post the first chapter of the "Roots" fic soon. Check back for that (or click author alert if you're really impatient, I guess).

And I have a wickedly delicious collaborative project with the love Incognito in the works, expected in December or January.

As if that wasn't enough, I also promised a prize to my faithful reviewers, and you shall have it. If you've reviewed each and every drabble, I'm greatly in your debt. PM me and we'll work out how I can best repay you. Perhaps a one-shot is in order? ;)


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